Silver Tongue, Golden Heart
by maeveiluka88
Summary: Regulus Black is hauled from near certain death at the hands of the Dark Lord's Inferi by a tiny, very angry force of nature with wild hair and cinnamon eyes. "You're an idiot, Regulus Black," she huffed, "Imagine going after the soul container of one of the most powerful dark wizards to ever live, and not having a back up plan." RAB/HG (ongoing, unbeta'd. Taking a while, sorry)
1. 1 - Ill-considered

**21 September 1979**

 **1\. Ill-considered**

* * *

 _I'm afraid that hate has found me._  
 _Because I'm drowning in the depths of this terrifying reality you've made for me._

 _\- Jaycee, Under the Sea_

* * *

Regulus Arcturus Black was expecting to die from the moment Kreacher had returned from the outing with the Dark Lord, delirious and moribund from a potion the dark wizard had made him drink.

Regulus held a certain amount of respect and fascination with the Dark Arts – the idea of cordoning off an entire branch of magic as "bad" seemed silly at best, and a ham-fisted attempt at establishing a dictatorship that routinely practised suppression at worst. However, soul magic was where he drew the line, and seeing his master rip his soul in half and deposit it in a piece of ostentatious jewellery after brutally murdering Dorcas Meadowes had solidified his already-wavering loyalty firmly on whatever side of the wall did not host the Dark Lord. That was before he'd nearly killed Kreacher, his only friend in the godforsaken house.

And so there he was, crossing a dark lake in a cave with his house elf. A rickety boat that cut through the glassy surface with unnatural precision. Regulus peered over the edge of the boat and suppressed a shudder at the sight of bloodless limbs and haunted faces rolling under the surface. Inferi, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's favourite parlour tricks.

Regulus was starting to dread his inevitable demise. Expecting to die had very little impact until one was actually faced with the cause of their death.

They reached the rocky island in the middle of the lake far too quickly for his liking. He clambered out of the boat, finding his legs had forgotten how to work in the short trip. When he straightened and looked around, he wondered why he hadn't noticed the eerie green glow that the basin in the centre of the island was emitting before that moment. He stumbled forward, drawn to it by some compulsion, and Kreacher scrambled after him.

When he was standing in front of it, the glow seemed ominous; given the state of Kreacher when he had returned to Grimmauld some weeks earlier, it was not an unlikely assumption that the potion would cause great pain and suffering.

He reached forward experimentally and was unable to touch the surface of the potion with his hand. That was expected, but disappointing nonetheless because it meant he would indeed be drinking the vaguely menacing potion. Grimacing, he conjured a goblet and dove it into the basin. The goblet passed through the invisible barrier and slipped into the potion.

He brought the goblet to his nose and sniffed. It was fetid and bitter, burning his nostrils and making his eyes water. Kreacher looked with trepidation as Regulus tipped back the goblet and drained it, grimacing as it hit his throat and burned its way down to his stomach. His vision blacked for a moment and he sucked in a deep breath before dipping the goblet back in and gulped down the next cupful.

He'd drunk from the goblet four times before the effects began to take a hold of him. He dropped to his knees with a gasp, fearing gripping him as a brutalised corpse crouched in front of him, her chest ripped open to display her still-beating heart.

"You did this to me," she told him candidly, and he groaned, "You could have stopped him, could've rescued me."

"No," he moaned, "I didn't... I didn't kill..."

Kreacher had taken the task of emptying the potion into his mouth.

"Oh, you may not have held the knife Reggie, but this is as much your fault as it is his," she said, and then her eyes went blank and Regulus screamed as she gurgled blood from her mouth, her throat slit so brutally that her head was nearly severed from her neck.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. Kreacher tipped his head back and poured another helping of the potion down his throat, "I'm sorry, Meadowes."

"This is all your fault, you know," his brother said with a sneer, looking at him in disgust, "You killed Dorcas and you backed a madman. This is what you deserve."

"I do, I do, I'm sorry," his throat was on fire and his brother just smirked. Maybe he would kill him and put him out of his misery, "I deserve this, I deserve to die."

Kreacher retrieved the locket from the basin, dropping the replacement into it.

"Young Master, we have the locket. We be leaving this place," the elf insisted, trying to pull his master from the ground.

Regulus at this point was unhearing or uncaring; his throat had erupted in a wildfire that raged through his body with such fierce blaze that he felt sure that his organs were charring. The lake promised respite from the caustic feeling eroding his sight and boiling him from the inside out. He crawled towards the lakes edge, the crags catching on his robes and hands, causing his hands to bleed and robes to tear. Unheeding, he reached the shore and dove hands into the water, gulping it with greed as chalky limbs stretched towards him, dragging him into the water to join them.

Regulus didn't fight them, didn't even really notice that he was drowning, so relieved he was at the soothing water and blissful silence. This was, after all, the plan. Kreacher would leave, as he had been commanded, and he would die here. Not in vain; Kreacher would destroy the Horcrux, and someone would be able to kill the Dark Lord when he was rendered mortal.

His eyes were drifting closed, he was breathing in water. Slipping away, pulled into the depths of the lake by the animated corpses.

And then there was fire. His eyes snapped open as the Inferi let out inhuman screeches that echoed, even underwater, and reared away from the heat, letting him slip from their grip and bob to the surface limply.

He vaguely registered the splash of something else entering the water and barreling into him before his vision faded completely.

* * *

He woke up retching, rolling to his side to expel the water he had inhaled and the potion before that. It was no longer glowing, curdled in his stomach and diluted by the water. Once he had evicted the contents of his stomach onto the ground beside him, he dragged in a deep breath and looked around.

He was on a cliffside with the wind beat around him, cutting through his wet robes and down to his bones. The view was heart-stopping; beautiful and harsh. The waves crashed into the cliffside some hundred metres below and he inched away from the edge on his hands and knees, shaking from the cold.

At this point, scanning the inward horizon was his next step. His gaze slid over to land on a figure not far from where he had been laid. Short and waif like, a woman or a girl probably. Human, definitely.

She turned around, meeting his gaze. She wore pants and a blouse in a fashion that was undoubtedly Muggle, but she held her wand aloft as she approached him. Her clothes were dry, he noted with a little envy as another gust of wind rattled his bones.

As she got closer, he noted she was examining him with intelligent eyes the colour of cinnamon, her hair whipping wildly in the gale. He raised his arms in surrender and winced again at the cold.

She sighed at this, wordlessly casting a charm that dried his clothes in an instant. He immediately felt warmer. She indicated for him to follow her and seeing as she was the only person around and seemed to know what she was doing, he saw no reason not to follow her.

She led them into a copse, the wind calming down the further they got from the cliff. Once they passed the treeline the silence was almost deafening. He watched as the witch poked her wand into the air and a small cottage shimmered into existence. He followed her into the single room, sighing in relief at the wood stove. He crossed the room immediately to stand with his back to the stove, the heat seeping into his muscles.

The woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips as she faced him. She was _very_ small; his first impression had been correct. She stood a foot and a half shorter than his 6-foot even but somehow still managed to be imposing. She was also quite young, 20 at the oldest, and slender almost to the point of underfed. Her collarbones jutted out of her tawny skin and her cheekbones were sharp.

"You're an idiot, Regulus Black," she huffed, clearly irritated. He was taken aback – he was fairly sure that he'd never met this witch before, but she was speaking as though she knew exactly who he was and what he'd been doing.

"I'm sorry," he said, finding his voice raspy, "Do I know you?"

"No," She gave no further explanation, continuing her reproving, "Imagine going after the soul container of one of the most powerful dark wizards to ever live, and _not_ having a back-up plan."

"I wasn't planning on living through it," he said defensively, "It went exactly how I thought it would."

"And that's why you're an idiot," she shot back, "Did you read nothing on Horcruxes? What made you think a house elf would be able to destroy it?"

"Kreacher is very powerful," He came to the defence of his servant, "He's perfectly capable of-"

"Not unless he has a supply of Basilisk venom or the ability to control Fiendfyre," she said flatly, "Leaving something that Dark to your house elf was a fool's plan. Are you a fool, Mr Black?"

"No," he said, feeling that maybe he was a fool, actually.

"And either way, the job's not done yet," she continued, her tone indicating that she probably agreed with his internal assessment of himself, "There are three others currently in existence and he has plans for three more."

He had to physically snap his jaw shut to stop himself from gaping at her. He stepped aside as she moved to put the kettle on the stovetop.

"Tea?" She offered, summoning a pair of mugs and some tea leaves seemingly from nowhere. He nodded.

"How do you have it?" she asked.

"Black with one sugar," he responded, "Tell me, how exactly do you know the Dark Lord has more than one Horcrux?"

She didn't reply while she finished preparing the tea.

When it was sitting in front of them, sitting opposite sides of a small table, she tilted her head and scrutinised him carefully.

"You look very much like Sirius," she said finally.

He stiffened but did not say anything.

"I was born on the 19th of September 1979," were her next words, wholly aside from anything he had thought she might say.

There was a beat of silence between the two.

"Two days ago?" He confirmed, and she nodded. "Well, they say girls mature faster than boys."

She snorted, "Yes, well."

He took a sip of tea.

"Am I to assume you have travelled back in time?" He asked after a moment.

"Yes," she said, simply, "Though if you want answers as to _how_ exactly, that may have to wait until after I have figured it out myself."

"Yes, that complicates matters," he agreed. He hadn't planned this far ahead, given he had thought he would die in the cave, so the apparent addition of a time traveller to his current existence was negligible in the scheme of things.

"As for the Horcrux issue, the point at which I left my original timeline I was searching for the remaining. He had made, by that stage, seven."

"Seven?" asked Regulus, torn between horror and disbelief. One had been bad enough.

She nodded, understanding his reaction.

"Then I think it would be prudent to collaborate," he concluded, his expression hardening, "You clearly know who I am, can you enlighten me as to who you are?"

"Hermione," she replied with an inscrutable look on her face, "I've come from 1998."

* * *

 **Authors note: Hi everyone! I'm starting a new story despite having two going already, because I've got an itch to scratch about Regulus Black.**

 **Please read and review if you like it!**

 **~Alycat**


	2. 2 - Ill-begotten

**22 September 1978**

 **2\. Ill-begotten**

* * *

 _"The night is fled, the night is gone,_  
 _Let us splash in hues of the golden sun,_  
 _Let us shake off yesternight's sorrow,_  
 _For night is fled, night is no more."_

 _\- Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Dawn of Hope_

* * *

Regulus woke shortly before daybreak, having taken the lumpy couch over the single bed in the room in an attempt at chivalry. Looking around and not seeing the witch had him rethinking his decision, irritated that his sacrifice was being ignored.

He stood and stretched, each joint popping and rearranging itself to be more comfortable. His throat was still scratchy and dry, leading him to hunt out a glass and visit the sink in the small kitchen area. The glass in the window was dusty and warped, easily a hundred years old.

It faced towards the coast. The trees hid most of the view, allowing weak strands of the new day to thread their way through the branches and illuminate the silhouette of his companion slipping through a gap and towards the cliff face.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he put his glass down, checked his wand in his pocket, and followed her.

When he reached her, she was sitting at the edge watching the sun spread across the horizon and illuminate the world. Dawn always had a certain magical feel to it; of new beginnings and Light. Magi of old relied on the forces of nature to draw their power from in the years prior to cohesive wand lore, the real beginnings of Dark and Light being in the time a witch or wizard would practise their craft.

Bathed in the golden morningtide, he was suddenly overcome with the urge to take a flying leap off the bluff, no doubt hurling himself to the watery demise he had barely escaped the night before. Logic clung on long enough to refute the idea he would simply float, and he sat next to Hermione.

Her face was glowing in the sunlight, turned towards the horizon with her eyes closed in obvious pleasure. He felt almost uncomfortable, as though he was witnessing a private moment between her and the new day.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

"As well as I could," he answered, pointedly ignoring the crick in his neck, "Did you?"

"I don't sleep much," she admitted, finally cracking an eye open to examine him with a sidelong glance, "I told you you could have the bed. I barely slept an hour."

"Hm," he responded noncommittedly, unwilling to admit he would have preferred it, "Why don't you sleep?"

"There's no real relaxing when you're on the run," she replied, lightly, but when she tucked her hair behind her ear her hand shook.

"The Cruciatus," he said, almost without thinking, and she froze.

"Pardon?"

"Those tremors, they're a marker of long-term exposure to the Cruciatus Curse."

Her lips thinned minutely, "So what if they are?"

He held up his own hand, trembling. Even those in the Dark Lord's service did not escape his wrath.

She looked at him for another moment, and then dropped her gaze and allowed them to lapse into silence.

"Any more thoughts on how you got here?" he asked eventually. Without a word, she pulled a smooth gold chain from around her neck and deposited it unceremoniously in the dirt in front of him.

It was the Horcrux he had just retrieved from the cave, blackened and twisted but more importantly, without the perpetual heaviness of malevolence. The soul it had contained was indisputably destroyed.

He gaped at her, "You- How- I-?"

"Don't get too excited," she said, grimacing, "Kreacher still has the locket you just retrieved. This is the one from my original timeline."

"That's... 19 years away. It wasn't destroyed?"

"No, I told you leaving it to a house elf was a fool's idea," she said, irritably, "We had only just managed it."

There was, at a modest guess, around a thousand questions he wanted to ask her just based on the last sentence. He settled on, "What does that have to do with why you're here?"

"I'm just guessing," she warned him, "Shortly before I left, we were kidnapped by Snatchers."

"Snatchers-?" he asked.

"Unmarked Death Eater scum," she said with surprising venom, unheeding of his flinch, "Who took us to Malfoy Manor to be questioned."

Regulus almost didn't need to hear anymore; he was familiar with the Death Eater brand of interrogation.

"We had the Sword of Gryffindor on our person, and the discovery of this made Bellatrix... erratic."

"Bella?" he asked, startled at the familiar name.

"Yes," she said, "Bella. She tortured me for three hours, stopping every time I was close to passing out to ensure I stayed awake and aware of the pain."

He shuddered.

"She had a cursed knife, she was going to carve me up I'm sure," she continued, her voice taking on a blank quality that he recognised as suppressed emotion, "My friend's burst in, they'd escaped, with a friend of ours, a house elf. I had the remains of the locket in my breast pocket. Bellatrix freaked out, I guess us escaping would be a disaster. She tried to shoot a stunner, Dobby was using elf magic, I was hit and here I am."

Regulus chewed over this for a minute before speaking, "Potentially Dobby's elf magic accessed the promise Kreacher made with me to destroy the locket, and it took you to a nearby moment in time. When did you arrive?"

"About four seconds after you were dragged into the lake," Hermione responded, "Kreacher apparated as I arrived."

"How did you know about the cottage?"

She frowned, "You know, I'm really not sure. It was like my feet were carrying me without any input from me."

"It's probably best to leave quickly, in that case."

She nodded in agreement, standing up and stretching. The glory of the sunrise had given way to the cool light of the day and Hermione no longer looked like a shining beacon on the cliffs edge.

They returned to the cottage with no discussion between them. There wasn't much to pack. Hermione was living out of a small beaded bag that didn't even look large enough to house her wand, but he watched with some amusement as she reached into the bag and kept reaching until she was shoulder deep. She pulled out a set of black robes and scowled at him when she noticed his expression.

"What?"

"Just seeing you, arm deep in a pouch," he allowed himself a snigger, and she rolled her eyes, "I wasn't sure if you owned robes."

"Would you rather walk into town with me dressed like a Muggle?" she asked, and his expression blanched imagining his mother's reaction if a story came out in the Prophet, "I didn't think so."

"How does the bag work?"

"Undetectable Extension Charm," she said, a little proudly.

"Isn't that-?"

"Illegal? Yes." She smirked, "But given the Ministry at the time wanted me caught and killed, I elected to ignore the rules."

"Killed?" he asked, startled, "What for?"

"Being a Mudblood," she quoted with a bitter twist of her lips.

He was silent, thinking. His desire to leave the Dark Lord's service had not been rooted in the denunciation of his ideals; he'd grown up with it engrained in his very being that magical blood was superior in every way. The idea of his rescuer being a Mudblood was, at the very least, disconcerting.

Hermione was also silent, aware that the truth of his abandonment was never a sure thing. They had assumed he had turned his back on the core message of the Death Eaters, but the truth was there was any number of reasons a Death Eater might turn his back on his Lord, and renouncing blood purity didn't make the top ten.

"Are you?" he asked, just to confirm.

"My parents are two very ordinary Muggle dentists." She didn't look ashamed or even nervous at the confession; her shoulders straightened, and she stared at him defiantly.

"You didn't tell me your family name," he stated.

"No," she replied, not answering the unspoken question.

"You are obviously aware of the Dark Lord's aspirations," he said, finally, "Why are you revealing this to me, knowing that? Isn't it dangerous or at least immeasurably stupid to do so?"

She bristled, "I refuse to be ashamed of my heritage."

"Mudblood's don't have heritage," he responded without thinking, and then grimaced, "Sorry, automatic response."

Her eyes sparked with something he didn't recognise, and she leaned forward to speak, "My father's family originated in France before emigrating to England in the 1800s. A distant great cousin of mine was the consort of Napoleon. We are distantly related to Joan of Arc, not that you'd understand the significance because she was a _mere Muggle._ There was a branch of the family tree mostly forgotten until I started looking into it in my sixth year, a reclusive son of a reclusive father, going back to the early 1600s. He married a woman, and to the horror of everyone, also took her name. His name was Hector Dagworth-Granger."

Regulus's eyes widened in recognition, and he opened his mouth to speak. She sealed in with a searing stare and continued to talk.

"My mother is Portuguese born, but her mother's mother was Nigerian. I grew up with tales from Portuguese and Nigerian folklore. I found in my family tree search that about six thousand years ago, a branch of my distant family tree attended Uagadou."

"So, you're not Muggleborn?" he asked, resisting the compulsion to use offensive language.

"I am Muggleborn," she said fiercely, "Maybe Muggleborn doesn't mean what you think it does. Magic doesn't spontaneously manifest in Muggles, it's a dormant gene that is activated once in a blue moon."

"A... jean?" he questioned, not recognising the word.

"Genes are genetic markers in your... well I suppose your blood," she explained, "They carry hereditary messages that form how you look, how you might act, your magic. They're the basis for your entire being."

"And a dormant gene?"

"A genetic marker that doesn't get used, essentially. Magic can travel through the Squid blood line for generations without being active. Muggleborns are winners of a genetic lottery, the gene gets activated for that generation. Given Muggleborns tend to marry back into the Wizarding community, the genes tend to stay active and produce further magical children. And once the gene is active, it's more likely to stay active in future generations regardless."

"Muggleborns are actually Squib-born then?" he tried again.

"Yes," she agreed, "Technically. That's not my point. Even if every single one of my relatives was completely mundane, my heritage is real. It might not be magical, but it still exists."

He supposed he could see the logic in that. He'd been taught to equate heritage with magic, but if he thought too hard about that particular definition it fell apart.

"Okay," he said, ignoring her look of surprise, "If I'm accepting that you're from the future, and accepting that the Dark Lord is an unstable maniac, it's not that much of a stretch to believe his core beliefs are flawed."

"He's also a halfblood," she said flatly, proving to him with startling ease that there are _always more surprises to come, "_ He's a bigot and a hypocrite."

That merited further thought, and he told her as much. She shrugged, "I don't care how long you take to think about it, but if you're going to have trouble keeping any of my secrets, tell me now and I'll Obliviate you. The situation is too precarious for me to risk it."

"I won't reveal your secrets," he promised immediately. Confused he might be, but not remembering was the far worse option.

* * *

She apparated them to the Forest of Dean, still shooting paranoid looks over her shoulder and starting when she heard Regulus behind her.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking around. There was a large creek twisting through the trees, and the still-early morning light filtered through the leaves and bathed the clearing they were in in a dappled green light. It was quite pretty, overall.

"The Forest of Dean," she said shortly, "We were camped here before I came back here."

"Who is we?"

"Me and my friends," she offered no further explanation, "We need to establish a realistic background story for me to be integrated into your life."

"We do?"

She gave him an exasperated look, "Unless you want to be Obliviated and I'll scuttle off to the shadows and try and defeat Voldemort myself. With no help."

"Of course," Maybe the Inferi had eaten part of his brain before he was rescued. He was usually more attentive than this but given the amount of information he was receiving it was perhaps not unexpected that the obvious was getting by him, "Mother won't have you in the house unless you have a pureblood family."

Hermione wrinkled her nose in obvious disgust, "Is there any way I can avoid meeting your mother altogether?"

"What's wrong with her?" he asked, amused.

"She's a hag."

Regulus couldn't stop the bubble of laughter that fought its way up his throat, "Have you met her?"

"Her portrait," she said sourly, "A most charming experience it was _not_."

He thought of his mother in one of her rages and privately agreed it was probably not a pleasant experience.

"In any case, probably not," he said, addressing her question, "The family library is probably an excellent place to start research, and you won't be able to access that unless we can get you into the house."

She looked displeased with the idea, but sighed and nodded, "Alright. Identity theft of some description got it. What else?"

He looked embarrassed, "I, uh, don't exactly know how to say it."

"Say what?" she said, impatiently.

"If you start calling on me with a pure background she will aim for a betrothal."

" _What?"_ she shrieked, a remarkable imitation of his mother though he didn't think it wise to tell her so, "I- But- Aren't you already betrothed?"

"Why would I-?" he sputtered, not expecting the question.

"I just assumed-"

"I'm not betrothed-"

"-being a pureblood and all-"

"-I only just finished school-"

"-that doesn't matter to most of those families-"

They both stopped talking, drawing in a breath. She was flushed, clearly embarrassed, and he hadn't fared much better.

"I'm not betrothed," he said, after a moment, "The Black men tend to wait until they've finished schooling before they marry. The women are betrothed by the time they're sixteen."

Hermione didn't comment, but her disgust was obvious.

"If you start spending a lot of time with me, she's going to make certain assumptions," he continued, "And it might... benefit our plans to lean in to those assumptions."

"You want to pretend to be courting," she said blandly.

"In essence, yes." In any other situation his ego would be bruised by the complete lack of enthusiasm from the witch.

She sighed, "Fine. If you touch me, I'll break your fingers."

Another peal of laughter threatened to burst through his sealed lips, and he swallowed it and nodded solemnly, "Of course, Miss Dagworth-Granger."

She startled, "How- Oh. Yes, that makes sense."

He could almost see the thoughts flicker across her face.

"Oberon Dagworth-Granger is a notorious recluse," Regulus explained, "He's the many times great grandson of Hector Dagworth-Granger, a friend of mine, and as it happens, very partial to gold."

"You're going to bribe him into pretending I'm related to him?"

"No, I'm going to bribe him into adopting you," he replied.

She faltered, "You're _what?"_

He didn't leave her time to protest, grabbing her hand and pulling her into temporary non-being with a loud crack.

* * *

They landed on the outer wall of a small manor. Literally on top of the stone wall. Hermione looked down for a moment and went a faint shade of green, clinging like a limpet to Regulus's side. The howling wind did not increase her confidence.

"Not a fan of heights?" he asked with a faint smirk.

"No," she said shortly, "Why are we up here?"

"It's the Apparation Point."

"On a foot and a half of stone wall?" she asked incredulously.

"He's a paranoid recluse, he doesn't make it easy or comfortable to find him," he shrugged.

Almost on cue, a silver streak landed in front of them, an otter patronus to Hermione's background amusement.

It sat on its hind legs and said in a gruff voice, "Fuck off Reg."

Hermione snorted and Regulus rolled his eyes, retorting, "Fuck off yourself. I've brought a friend and I have a favour to ask."

The otter seemed to listen and amble through the air before streaking back towards the manor house. Shortly afterwards she felt the wards drop to allow them entry, and Reg apparated them to the front door.

It opened to reveal a man of similar stature to Professor Flitwick, though significantly less... gobliny. She would hazard his age at around 70. He wore a scowl, but there was an obvious twinkle in his eye.

"Reg," he grunted, and then nodded in acknowledgement towards Hermione, "Girly."

She fought the urge to bristle in indignation. Regulus guided her in through the door with his hand lightly pressed against her back. They arrived in an opulent but cosy drawing room.

"Feeky," Oberon snapped.

A house elf appeared with a crack and bowed to his master. He was wearing a pillow case, silk by the looks of it, and what appeared to be a tea cosy on his head.

"Master is calling me?"

"Please prepare tea and biscuits for our guest."

The house elf bowed again and popped out. Oberon indicated to the armchairs who heeded him by scooting behind the pair and nudging them until they sat.

"Well, out with it," he said, levelling a hard stare at Regulus, "This isn't a social call."

"Well spotted," said Reg, leaning back into the chair, a picture of ease, "I'd like to introduce you to your daughter."

"Excuse me?" For all his impression of an immovable old man, this sentence had not been what he expected.

"Let me explain," cut in Hermione with a warning glance at the youngest Black, "My name is Hermione Granger. Regulus and I are in a situation that requires me to use a reputable pureblood name to achieve our goals. I have Dagworth-Granger ancestry."

"Hermione, hmm?" Oberon examined her and she had a distinct impression of being stripped down and x-rayed, "My fourth cousin Richard just had a girl called Hermione. In the last couple of days."

She froze, her blood running cold. Richard was her father's name.

Feeky chose that moment to reappear, pottering around and pouring a tea cup for each person, and depositing a biscuit on each of their saucers. Despite her distraction, she thanked the house elf.

"I don't pick you as a liar, Hermione Granger," continued Oberon, as though there had been no interruption, "I'm not going to ask questions you shouldn't give answers to. What is it you came here for?"

"I'm here to encourage you to adopt Miss Granger," said Regulus, removing a bag of Galleons from his robes and depositing them on the table in a fluid movement, the weighty _chink_ an indicator of the offering.

Oberon burst into laughter. Regulus exchanged a bewildered glance with Hermione as the old man wiped tears of mirth away, still howling with laughter.

Eventually he calmed down enough to speak to them, "It's to do with your fools' mission for this Voldie fellow isn't it?"

Regulus sobered and nodded, a sharp movement that would not be caught if she had not been looking at him.

"We've got plans to bring him down, that's where your help is needed," she turned pleading eyes on him, unable to muster the energy to try and manipulate him. She wasn't a Slytherin after all.

"Fine," agreed Oberon without preamble, "You are my daughter whom has been kept secret and educated in Switzerland prior to this, mostly because I am roundly disgusted with the blood purity nonsense in Britain."

Hermione felt herself deflate with relief. Oberon took the Galleons ( _Child support,_ he said with a twinkle in his eye) and in short order they had shared a drop of blood and mingled their bloodlines forevermore. A task made easier by the fact that their blood already shared kin, though she did not mention this.

"You'd better write me, daughter of mine," he said, as he waved them off. She nodded in agreement, still not entirely sure how this had all worked but unwilling to question it.

* * *

Regulus apparated them to a place that she recognised as Islington. She smiled faintly, recalling the time she had spent in Grimmauld in the past. Well, the future.

"We used to play around here as kids," Regulus said in a low voice, indicating the small playground, already overrun with Muggle children, shrieking with glee. She smiled.

"You and Sirius?"

"Yeah."

"We stayed here for a while, when we were first on the run." She smiled, a little sadly.

"In my family home?" he asked, an eyebrow raised. She nodded.

"It's a long story."

Changing topics, "Are you sure you're not actually Oberon's daughter? You're the right height for it."

"I'm taller than him," she snapped, her cheeks flushing.

"Not by much," he pointed out, "What are you, four foot tall?"

"I am _not,"_ she huffed, "I'm five foot exactly."

That actually surprised him, "Really?"

"Yes, really." she said crossly, "We can't all be towering giants, but I'm perfectly normal."

Deciding not to question it, he used his wand to adjust her robes slightly. She squawked in indignation and he chuckled, "Just making it fit a little better. Tailoring makes robes look more expensive."

She rolled her eyes, but didn't argue, "Let's go then."

Standing on the steps of his home, which he'd been certain he would never see again less than 24 hours ago, was strangely intimidating.

The door opened when it sensed him, and Hermione dragged him inside by the wrist when he stalled.

Everything was blessedly unchanged.

He sensed his mother, feeling a new person being brought through the wards.

"Hermione?" he whispered.

"Hmm?" she responded, turning back to him.

"I'll explain later. Please forgive me."

"Wh-?"

He put a hand either side of her face and kissed her.

* * *

 **Authors note: I'm overwhelmed by the response this has got! I've got 122 followers just from my first chapter. I think maybe everyone else has an appetite for Regulus Black too? In that case, yay! Welcome.**

 **This chapter was transitional and I welcome feedback. We'll get into some more interesting meat of the tale with the next chapter but I needed to set them up in this. Hopefully the fact it's a longer chapter makes up for it!**

 **In addressing someone's concern about Regulus's assessment of Hermione's height - yup you're absolutely right that it would have been noted beforehand if she was that short. Taking into account that it is a fanfic, but also that Regulus had almost died and, as you will find out, is quite prone to exaggerating, his initial impression of her is skewed. She's short and skinny but she's not a little person, and she gets a bit shirty when people underestimate her height.**

 **Sorry for the cliff hanger! Please READ AND REVIEW.**

 **Love y'all, Alycat**


	3. 3 - Ill-conceived

**22 September 1979**

 **3\. Ill-conceived**

* * *

 _A trademark warmth she wears so well_  
 _like sun rays on a daffodil._  
 _She laughs like shamrock by the well,_  
 _as infectious as a breeze among bluebells._

 _\- sara, Flora for Finola, A rose with few thorns_

* * *

Hermione's first instinct was to break away from him and slug him in the face. Or maybe break his fingers, as she'd promised earlier. However, his hands held her firmly and trying to worm her way out was likely to cause pain, so she relaxed, slightly, and began to analyse (as she was wont to do).

She hadn't been kissed very much before; constantly spending one's life ensuring your best friend does not die a painful death is not conducive to romance and as such she'd given up shortly after the Yule Ball. In part to do with Ron's treatment of her, helped along with a heaping serve a teenage crush on him. That was crushed to dust when he had abandoned them the previous September.

Back to the matter at hand, Regulus was an adequate kisser. He was clearly nervous and inexperienced but rated above Viktor's rough smacks and well above Terry Boot's slobbery attempts. His lips were soft, and she registered (with some consternation on her part) that he tasted of peppermint.

"Ahem," A new voice joined them on the landing, clearing her throat. They broke apart clumsily, both flushing.

They turned to face Walburga Black, who looked amused, faint expression of having a vial of cat urine permanently under her nose aside.

"Mother," said Regulus, acting surprised, "You're home, good."

Hermione had frozen upon seeing her, almost expecting her to begin frothing at the mouth and wailing about Mudbloods and blood traitors. As it were, Walburga eyed her suspiciously and then looked at her son for explanation.

"Mother, I'd like for you to meet Hermione Dagworth-Granger," he introduced, and Hermione dipped into a curtsey, "She's the daughter of my friend Oberon and has been privately educated in Switzerland until earlier this year."

"Lovely to meet you, Madam Black," said Hermione politely, "Regulus speaks of you very fondly."

"The same to you, Miss Dagworth-Granger," said Walburga, insincerely, "I need to speak to my son, if you'll excuse us. I'll have our elf show you to the drawing room. _Kreacher!"_

Hermione barely contained her startled jump at the older woman's sudden transformation into the shrieking portrait of her future. Regulus's hand on the small of her back kept her grounded, and Kreacher appeared with a resounding crack.

The elf looked like he had not slept well, with drooping eyes and green and blue veins standing out in his eyes, the house elf equivalent of blood shot. He looked like someone had hit him with a cast iron pan when he saw Regulus standing in the hallway.

Hermione suspected it was only the strength of his master's original command to tell no-one that kept him from flinging himself at Regulus's feet and sobbing.

Instead, he fortified himself and said, "Mistress is calling me?"

"Yes," said Walburga, ignorant of the turmoil roiling around her, "Please take our guest to the drawing room and prepare tea. We will join her for lunch."

Kreacher nodded enthusiastically, grabbing her arm and leading her down the hallway (still dim and depressing, she noted, though in significantly better condition). Regulus and Walburga followed, but where she was led left, they turned right.

The drawing room was also fairly unchanged, though there was less dust and the tapestry in full glory across one wall. Distinct burn marks marred the otherwise very pretty tapestry. If she ignored the implications, she might have even been impressed.

Kreacher left to gather the tea, presumably, and Hermione took the chance to dig out an Extendable Ear and send it crawling towards the sitting room on the other side of the hall, where Regulus was speaking to his mother in hushed tones.

"Where did you find this girl?" snapped Walburga, "I don't want you sullying our name with filth, not when we're trying to find a good match for you."

"She's pureblood, mother," replied Regulus coolly, "The Dagworth-Granger family goes back many generations. I met her by chance, I didn't realise Obie even had a daughter."

"Who's her mother?" she asked, dubiously.

"A Swiss-French pureblood, Margaux Glauser," he lied with ease. Well, that was nice to know, if she was ever asked. "She was born of marriage, but they live apart now. Chateau Bildung Zauber is a day school in Geneva, so she lived with her mother during the school year, and Obie visited during the summer. She's just finished her last year, so she visited him in Wiltshire, and I met her when I visited him on my birthday."

He was laying it on a bit thick in her opinion, but she could hardly argue the point. She'd heard of the Geneva day school; the idea had fascinated her. She'd been embroiled in saving her best friend from dying and thereby dooming the wizarding world to a slow decline into terror and darkness, and she also didn't think she could convince her parents to uproot their lives and move to Switzerland, so nothing had ever come of her fascination.

"Are you planning on courting her?" Walburga continued her interrogation, "It would be beneficial to join with a European family, especially with ties to the Dagworth-Granger's. They are very influential internationally."

"We're just getting to know each other right now," he replied.

"Yes, I can see that," her voice sounded begrudgingly amused, "Very well. Get to know her, but don't taint her virtue. It looks bad, and you would make an enemy of the family if you do not marry."

"Yes Mother," he sounded exasperated.

She understood now that Regulus had played his mother like a fiddle. Catching them kissing in the hallway provided him with an opening to introduce her without undue suspicion, weave a back story, and provide a reason for her to be in his company often. The impression of accidental meeting had almost certainly guaranteed less scrutiny from his mother, if she thought it an unsuitable passing fancy, or the protection of her interfering to make it a match if she decided the contrary.

It was really quite brilliant, she was annoyed she hadn't thought to suggest it herself and instead had it sprung on her. Giving her time to argue hadn't been an option, she realised now. Maybe she'd only break one or two fingers once she got him alone. She was forgiving like that.

Kreacher reappeared with a tea pot as she was replacing the ear into her bag. Thinking of her earlier tea with... well, her father, she had the distinctly un-British thought of being sick of tea already. Kreacher poured her a cup, unheeding, and she sipped at it more out of a desire to be polite than anything else.

Regulus entered the drawing room, and Walburga swept in behind him.

"Kreacher, lunch." she commanded. Hermione fought and won against the urge to roll her eyes and/or assure Kreacher that he was appreciated. The grouchy bastard had never appreciated it before anyway.

"Yes Mistresss," he replied, bowing and disappearing.

Regulus sat on the couch next to her and Walburga across from them. His hand hovered uncertainly for a moment before coming to rest on her back again.

"I apologise for my son," said Walburga imperiously, "And for my earlier rudeness. My son has not had previous dalliances, it was unexpected." She smiled unconvincingly.

"No offense was taken, Madam Black," said Hermione, privately wondering if Regulus would object to a well-placed Silencing charm – or perhaps a Stunner, "I would not normally be so distracted."

She didn't have the fake the flaming of her cheeks as the memory of the hallway flashed into her mind. _Prat,_ she thought fiercely.

Kreacher reappeared with a large plate of sandwiches and deposited them on the coffee table. The room settled into an awkward silence. Walburga examined her, hunter judging prey, and Hermione resisted to urge to squirm and silently cursed whatever deity had seen fit to put her in this position. She was a quick study, and knew all the hypotheticals of Pureblood high society, but she suddenly felt certain that everything she had read was wrong.

"Who's your mother, girl?" Walburga asked, having decided to quiz her.

"My mother's name is Margaux," she said, ignoring the brief expression of panic and the fisting of her robes from Regulus, who clearly hadn't thought to brief her on her invented life story before sitting down to a lunch with his mother, "And my name is Hermione, if you please Madam Black."

Walburga narrowed her eyes a fraction, reassessing, before relaxing into a simpering smile, "Very well, you have my blessing."

Hermione sent a deliberate bewildered look at Regulus, who sighed and explained, "Mother is happy for us to get to know each other without formal courting."

She thought of her fictitious mother, living away from her husband in Geneva, decided that Hermione Dagworth-Granger probably thought as much of formal courting rituals as plain old Hermione Jean Granger did, and responded accordingly, "Pardon, formal courting? I wasn't aware that that would be expected of me."

Regulus looked very much like he wanted to haul her into the hallway and forcibly shut her up in a much less pleasant manner than their last hallway encounter.

Walburga looked like she had sucked on a lemon, but enquired politely "Why ever not Miss Dagworth-Granger?"

This time, Hermione let herself squirm, "Er... my parents are unconventional. Mother lives in Geneva, and Father in Wiltshire for most of the year, and I've never had lessons on the ins and outs of English purebloods. Things are not very formal in Switzerland you see."

Walburga looked horrified, "So you don't know the courting rituals?"

"No m'am."

"You are at risk of being taken advantage of," Walburga put a hand to her chest, the image of utter dismay, "I will teach you all that a young woman will need in England."

While a small part of her realised that this was a perfect way to learn her way around while having an excuse for her inevitable misstep, the larger part couldn't think of anything worse than private etiquette lessons with a banshee.

"Wonderful," Hermione beamed, shoving the unhelpful thoughts aside to grasp the opportunity, "Can you first explain what formal courting is, and why I am being allowed to not?"

Walburga muttered under her breath something about _blue stocking'd witches,_ and then said, "In England, when a man courts his chosen witch, it is thought to be a pre-betrothal. There are rituals and customs that come along with that that formalise the courtship, such as gifts of jewellery or flowers."

Hermione must have let her horror slip through her expression, because the elder witch clucked in disapproval, "Most would be pleased by that, but I can see this will be uphill progress. Because a courting is an indication of your intent to betroth, it is not applied to dalliances or fleeting affairs. Regulus has indicated he only wishes to learn more about you, currently," a sniff of disapproval, "And so there is little point formalising the arrangement at this stage."

"I see," she said carefully, reconsidering her decision to only break a couple of Regulus's fingers, "So you're saying that you give Regulus permission... to undertake a _fleeting affair?"_

Walburga looked pleased that her meaning had gotten across, "Yes, as Regulus indicated."

Hermione huffed, and shot a look of annoyance at the dark-haired boy beside her, _a fleeting affair indeed._ To his credit, he looked afflicted, as though the thought of engaging in informal courting caused him physical pain.

His mother decided that was the moment to stand and say, "Very well, I will leave you to _learn_ about one another. Do come by on Wednesday to continue your lessons, dear."

"Of course, Madam Black." she inclined her head in agreement.

"Regulus," she snapped, "Behave yourself."

"Yes Mother," he responded in monotone.

With that, she swept out of the room. Hermione waited until the door had thudded shut before jabbing the air with a _Muffliato_ and turning to punch Regulus on the shoulder.

"Ow," he protested, "What was that for?"

"Do you want a list?" Hermione snapped, "Did your mother just call me a trollop or was I imagining that?"

He had the good grace to look chagrined, "Er... she might have. Informal courting is thought to be for... well..." He paused.

"For what?" she prompted.

"Well, for couples to... mess around."

She took a deep breath. And then another. _In through your nose, out through your mouth._

"Regulus," she began, steepling her hands across the bridge of her nose, "Are you telling me that... you told your mother, essentially, that we are _fuckbuddies?"_

He had been taking a sip of tea when she began her question; unfortunate for his lungs, because her crude language caused him to inhale the mouthful and begin coughing. She looked at him impassively.

"Er," he said once he had expelled the liquid from his lungs, "Maybe?"

"Okay," she said, calmly, "Fantastic."

"I'm... sorry?" Regulus tried, and Hermione huffed.

"Whatever, you can't take it back now." She sighed, slumping against the couch as the lack of sleep suddenly caught up with her, "And giving me a back story without thought of how that could have gone if I didn't listen in?"

"I didn't think-"

"I know you didn't," she groaned, her hands flattening over her eyes, "There's a lot more at stake here for me! Anyone who gets it into their head to look into my background is going to find more holes in it than Swiss cheese."

Regulus's lips twitched at the analogy, "We could engage in formal courtship, if you'd like."

"But how would I fulfil my throbbing need for your touch?" she asked dryly, "I imagine formal courtships come with more rules."

This time he couldn't stop his mouth from curving into a smile, nor the snort he emitted, "Yes, but less interference."

"I genuinely do not understand you Pureblood's and your weird obsession with Victorian era Muggle bullshite."

He looked offended, "There's nothing Muggle about it."

She tipped her head back and let out a peal of laughter, a joyful bell in the house that was otherwise devoid of music.

"Tell me, would your mother think me a loose woman if you gave me coriander instead of acacia?"

"You know the language of flowers?" he asked, brushing the question aside with one of his own.

She conjured a pink carnation, solid in colour, with a flourish and presented it to him mockingly, "I do, taught by the esteemed literature of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters."

"Books? I haven't read them."

"I wouldn't expect you to have," she replied, "Austen was a Muggle author who died in the eighteen hundreds, as are the Bronte sisters. I learned of the language of flowers from the books they published, but it was popularised by the Muggle monarch Queen Victoria. As are many of your old-fashioned customs."

Regulus's face twisted as he contemplated this. His upbringing, ingrained in every carefully planned movement and deployed word, reared up to battle the logical side of his mind, the one that said even if the Muggle's hadn't invented it first, this revelation made his previous protests null. Saying there was "nothing Muggle about it" when the Muggle's had similar practises was either untrue or wilfully ignorant.

Being around this witch was turning out to be an exercise in frustration, he noted. The tearing apart of all his base givens was... well, not annoying, as such, but it required more thought than he usually deemed necessary for the foundations of his existence.

"Can you," he asked, hesitantly, "Maybe find a copy of these books for me?"

A grin split her face, "Of course. I might even have a copy in my bag."

Regulus sobered, "Shall we talk about the task at hand?"

Hermione's face dropped, "I was hoping to avoid thinking about it. I think I know where another one is, but I don't fancy trying to get to it."

"Where?"

She chose her words carefully, furtively checking the room as though someone might be lurking behind the piano. "Bellatrix was upset about the sword because she thought we had been in her vault."

Regulus realised the implication immediately, "Oh no. I don't fancy the solution to what you're about to say either."

Hermione nodded, wanly, "I know. I don't know where any of the others are yet."

"Do you know what?" he asked, unsure which answer would be worse.

"We think... probably objects of historical significance. Maybe more Founder's objects. And a diary."

"A diary?"

"Harry destroyed it when we were in second year," she said, ignored his gobsmacked expression, "It was a diary Riddle made at age 16."

"He made a Horcrux at age 16," Regulus repeated in a strangled voice.

"Yes, and entrusted it to Lucius Malfoy."

"That one should be easier," he said with not a small amount of relief, "How many are there?"

"Five," she said, and then bit her lip, "I think. Diary, cup, ring, locket. One other one. His snake, but that won't have been made yet. He was aiming for seven."

Regulus felt a little ill.

"Helga Hufflepuff's cup," he said, recalling a text book from his third year, "It was in the Smith family."

Hermione winced, "I think that one is probably in Bellatrix's Gringotts vault."

"What's the ring?" he asked, running through his knowledge of Founder's objects and not making a connection.

"The Gaunt family ring," she explained, "Dumbledore destroyed it in my time, all I know is it was at the Gaunt family home and it's cursed."

He sighed, "The only other object I can think of is Ravenclaw's diadem. But it's called the Lost Diadem, and that's because it's... well,"

"Lost," supplied Hermione, looking downtrodden, "Circe, Merlin and Morgana, what the fuck have I committed myself to?"

Regulus privately agreed.

"Let's go to the library," he suggested, almost laughing at the eager expression crossing her face, "The Gaunt's were militant Purebloods, I bet there's heaps on them in there."

She nodded and stood to follow him. The library always made her feel in control and she knew from experience just how comfortable the chairs were. Maybe she'd take a nap.

* * *

 **Authors note: Next chapter, got in for the week by the skin of my teeth! I've been thoroughly drowned by work the last two weeks, as I work for a government and we had an election.**

 **Hope you enjoy! Can't believe there's 200+ of you already, that's crazy! I love you so much TT_TT I'm trying to reply to each review as it's posted so I can connect with my readers.**

 **Let me know what you think, please read and review!**

 **~Alycat**


	4. 4 - Illuminated

**26 September 1979**

 **4\. Illuminate**

* * *

 _The stars are infinite_  
 _Wild are their galaxies_  
 _The strength of their illumination_  
 _Does not know darkness_

 _\- Ilion gray, Sometimes, when it rains_

* * *

Regulus had been tasked with worming his way into Bella's good graces while Hermione endured the etiquette lessons his mother had promised her. He didn't envy her that, but he was starting to think he might've preferred to drown in the cave.

Rodolphus was making small talk while they waited for Bella to grace them with her presence.

Regulus detested small talk. It was inane and served little purpose beyond filling silences that didn't necessarily need filling in the first place. Still, he smiled politely as Rodolphus commented on his brothers lack of bride making their father angry and enquired after Regulus's efforts in the field.

"I'm actually seeing someone," said Regulus, clearing his throat, "Err, not formally though."

His cheeks warmed as he recalled Hermione's dressing down four days earlier. Rod gave him a knowing look.

"Ah to be young and frisky again," he teased, and Regulus flushed again, "Who have you found to occupy yourself with hmmm?"

"Ooh, do tell, cousin," Bella's usual purr sounded from the doorway, "Who is it you've found to dip your cock into?"

Regulus made a face at the crude language, "Really, Bella?"

She laughed, a throaty chuckle that had made him uncomfortable since he was a child, "Alright, we'll pretend to not know. Who is she, then?"

"Obie's daughter, Hermione," he replied, "I met her on my birthday this year."

"What a lovely present for you," mocked Bella.

"Dagworth-Granger?" asked Rodolphus, surprised, "I didn't know Oberon had children."

"Just one," Regulus said, "And he's not big on sharing so I'm not surprised you don't know of her."

Rod snorted, "That's true. She didn't go to Hogwarts, then?"

"No, she went to the day school in Geneva. She lived with her mother, although they're still married as far as I know."

"How modern," said Bella, not at all sincerely, "You should introduce us if you ever decide to make an honest witch of her."

Regulus flushed again ( _did you just tell your mother that we're fuckbuddies,_ echoing in his head), "She's never learnt about courting, so mum's teaching her and in the meantime we're informally courting."

There was a beat of silence, and then Rod burst into a roar of laughter, "Your mother is going to eat her alive."

"Probably," said Regulus, thinking that that would be a literal statement if she ever found out Hermione was a Mudblood. He stood and kissed Bella's cheek, "Lovely to see you, cousin. The last I saw of you, you were covered in blood."

She gave a wicked grin, "It's when I'm at my best. Our Lord knows how to put my strengths to good use."

By that, of course, she meant her bloodthirsty nature and brutality. He didn't care for a plan that would put him at the pointy end of her wand, but here he was, "Indeed he does. Now, I didn't come to talk of your pleasure activities, this is a business call."

"Oh?" said Bella, eyes gleaming, and they both sat down, Bellatrix next to her husband, "I do love it when you _proposition_ me Reggie."

He contemplated _Avada-_ ing himself on the spot.

"I'm looking into business opportunities for the family," he explained, "Father is almost at retiring age, and the Wizengamot seat will go to me when he does. It's a part time role at best and doesn't pay at all. I want to be adding to the family fortune, to ensure our continued... good fortune."

"Ah, yes," said Bella thoughtfully, "Our vaults are well stocked, but one can never be too careful. What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking that our Pureblood brethren may be interested in the creation and tracking of a family tapestry much like ours, dear cousin."

A smirk split her face, and for a moment Regulus could see the psychotic killer leech through the cracks, "And keep a track of the pruning we must do to keep our lines pure."

"Of course," he agreed, starting the realise the heaviness in his stomach was his body physically disagreeing with the sentiment.

* * *

Hermione was fuming. It wasn't showing on her face, though, having been taught first thing upon her arrival that a lady must smile politely and deliver poisoned barbs through insincere compliments and small talk that meant the opposite of what you really thought. She was starting to think that the uppercrust Pureblood's were all in Slytherin because the brash and forthright manner of Gryffindor was poorly suited for background politics and social games.

What she was really fuming about, though, was the sexism woven into every custom, the expectation that a witch would finish her Hogwarts education, maybe, and then marry and do nothing further except pop out an heir or two, pass them off on the house elves, and have tea with the other ladies all week long.

And she might've said something about it, stamped her foot and told Walburga it was all nonsense and maybe she wouldn't be such a two-dimensional bitch if she stepped outside and talked to people. One day, she might've.

But right now, she was bloody terrified of being discovered but completely unable to ignore the opportunity to _fix_ things. If she could sort out the Horcrux thing, maybe even get in a lucky shot at Riddle, then maybe James and Lily Potter would not die. Maybe Harry wouldn't have to grow up with his shrill-voiced, narrow eyed aunt and her brutish husband. He'd grow up, knowing what it was like to be loved.

She was well aware of the dangers of meddling in time. Lord knows Minerva McGonagall had made sure of that, drilling it into her that she must not change time, there are _dire consequences._ She was justifying it to herself that it wasn't a Time-Turner and she was unlikely to cause paradoxes by running into herself, not in Muggle Hampstead at aged 1 week, but it was a flimsy justification at best.

So, she sat, polite smile plastered on her face, and listened to Walburga talk about courting rituals and customs that completely ignored the agency of women, essentially reducing them to pretty little parcels to be traded between families.

"If a man presents you with flowers," Walburga was explaining, "You must only accept them if you intend to enter an ongoing courtship. Flowers not accepted by mid-morning of the day they are presented are considered a rejection, so you must take care to keep an eye on these things. A man who presents you with flowers beyond mid-morn is impolite at best, and you mustn't accept them, tell him to re-present them the following morning."

"Why does it matter?" flew out of Hermione's mouth before she could stop it.

Walburga gave her a serious look, "A man who doesn't follow customs isn't from a family who you should be aligning with."

Hermione nodded, using an inhuman amount of willpower to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

"At social events, you must wait for your sponsor to present you. Normally a young witch's family would be their sponsor, but given your family's rejection of the conventional, you may have to find another sponsor for events."

She gave what Hermione was sure was _meant_ to be a sympathetic glance but only served to make her look constipated.

She wondered how Regulus was going with Bellatrix.

* * *

By 6pm when Walburga released her from her lessons (after eliciting a promise that she would return the next week for dancing lessons), she was exhausted, annoyed, and could feel a migraine coming on. She hurried down Charing Cross Road towards the Leaky Cauldron, where she had a room paid for for the year in advance. Some of the purebloods were ridiculous with money, Regulus included, thinking nothing of spending money on a 20 Galleon room three hundred and sixty-five days in advance.

She took off her coat as she crossed the threshold, sighing in relief as she tilted her head from one side to the other, sinew and bone popping satisfyingly. She then turned, intent on throwing herself face down into her pillow, to find Regulus already sitting where she had intended to throw herself.

She let out a short shriek of surprise, hand pressed to her heart, "Gods, Regulus, you scared the daylights out of me."

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to."

"It's fine," she said, "I just wasn't expecting you to be here."

"I thought debriefing about our days might be beneficial."

"Only if you want to hear about the semantics of timing floral deliveries," she said, sourly, "I've never been so bored in my life and I sat through Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons with Gilderoy Lockhart teaching."

"The poncy git from Ravenclaw?" he asked, always managing to be surprised when she mentioned familiar names.

She cracked a reluctant smile, "Yes, that's the one. Winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award."

"Oh gods, really? That will make his fat head even fatter."

Hermione giggled, finding the light-hearted banter a relief after every word Walburga had said made her contemplate the merits of homicide

"How was your day?" she asked, and he groaned.

"Knowing what she did to you in your timeline makes it marginally more terrifying to be around her," he said, "As if seeing her participate in revels wasn't bad enough."

"Ugh," Hermione shuddered, "Did you make any progress?"

"Not much," he admitted, "Whenever I tried to steer the conversation towards the Dark Lord it evolved into talk of the revels."

He grimaced at recent memories of such revels, and Hermione thought it was best not to ask for details.

"I was invited to a lady's luncheon," she said, changing subject and making a face.

"Oh," said Regulus, sitting a little straighter, "That luncheon, is it Friday?"

"Yes," grumbled Hermione, "And I'm sure I'll have to attend with your mother."

"You should definitely attend," said Regulus, earning him an incredulous look from the witch, "No, don't look at me like that. This week it's at the Malfoy Manor, it's the perfect opportunity to do some reconnaissance."

Hermione looked a little green, and said faintly, "Oh good."

"I have a meeting with the Dark Lord, and Lucius and others." Regulus explained, looking less than pleased with the prospect, "Our last meeting at the Manor was to discuss strategic takeover of the Ministry, so I imagine it will be a similar."

"I want to not think about this temporarily," Hermione announced, "I think after enduring your mother for a day, you owe me a drink."

He couldn't find reason to argue that point, so shrugged, and they made their way downstairs.

* * *

 _28 September 1979_

Hermione, being Muggleborn, had always found the concept of robes a little bit weird. They felt a little like pyjamas with corsets, as far as she could tell, at least in the Pureblood application of the garment. Either way, it was a minor part of how uncomfortable she felt right this second, but the only reason she was willing to acknowledge.

Malfoy Manor was imposing; grand and utterly terrifying. She recalled with a barely concealed gasp being dragged through the doors, Harry's face swollen and nearly unrecognisable. Her sure she'd be killed, very nearly true. She almost jumped when a hand clamped down onto her shoulder.

Walburga Black gave her an odd look, "Are you okay dear?"

"Fine," she managed to choke, "Just unbelievably nervous."

Walburga, having no idea the real truth in those words, gave her the least comforting smile she'd ever seen, "You'll be fine. All the women are lovely."

 _If they knew who I really was I'd be flayed alive,_ thought Hermione ruefully, but she just nodded in false relief.

They entered, led through the halls by a small elf that wasn't Dobby (her heart clenched, thinking of Dobby appearing in the nick of time to rescue them from almost certain death). He led them past a parlour and an entirely separate sitting room, before stopping before some unsettlingly familiar doors.

"Where are we?" asked Hermione, hoping she sounded more mildly interested that the horror trying to claw its way up her throat would indicate.

" _Where did you get the sword? Tell me the truth girl, have you been in my vault?"_

" _It's a copy, it's just a copy! Please, you have to believe me."_

 _Bellatrix's facial features twisted into a sneer, "I'll find out if you're lying, you filthy little Mudblood. Crucio!"_

 _The pain ripped through her, a thousand burning knives on every nerve ending. She wondered faintly what the roar she heard was, and then the burning of her throat settled in and she realised it was her screaming. Her head lolled to the side, the flash of platinum and the terrified faces of Narcissa and Draco Malfoy, hers quickly blanking to hide the emotion but Draco unable to hide the cringing._

" _Hermione-" said an unfamiliar voice. She frowned. That voice did not belong here-_

"-and this is Hermione Dagworth-Granger. The poor thing has been brought up in Switzerland and has _no idea,"_ divulged Walburga, entirely too pleased to do so, "Regulus has taken a shine to her, so I couldn't let the potential squander. He's not expressed interest in marriage before, as you know."

She was suddenly trussed up tightly in too-formal robes, not with Bellatrix standing over her with her wand aloft and a manic gleam in her eyes, just in the door of the drawing room, ready for tea.

The flash of platinum was Narcissa, younger and whole, launching herself at her Auntie for an embrace and an introduction to the new girl in the room.

"Pleased to meet you," said Narcissa, standing back to examine her. Hermione became aware of the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead and down her neck, slick with fear.

"And you," replied Hermione, after a moment staring like a deer in a Lumos charm. She bobbed a curtsey, and then looked to Walburga. She nodded approvingly, and then gave a knowing look to Narcissa, "Regulus has spoken fondly of you."

Narcissa, to her credit, didn't hesitate and bobbed a curtsey in return, before grabbing the younger girl's clammy hands, "It's so nice to have some new blood! We're all getting old and stuffy in here. And fat."

She gave a tinkling laugh, and Hermione scanned her body. Draco Malfoy was likely incubating as they spoke, a tiny speck. Narcissa caught her questioning look and nodded fondly, folding her hands over her completely flat stomach.

"You mustn't tell, I've not had much luck with keeping pregnancies," confided the blonde, her expression dropping for a moment before smoothing into a marble statue etched with an impression of contentment, "I only found out last night."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I hope it goes well," she replied, sincerely.

"Come on, I'll introduce you to the other girls," Narcissa said, tugging on her hand, eager to introduce the "fresh blood" (an expression more apt would not be found).

* * *

Regulus was having his own moment of complete terror, cold sweats and all. Lucius had poured him a tumbler of Ogden's Finest as soon as he had walked in, and he was nursing it by the fireplace; unable or unwilling to partake in something that could compromise his Occlumency shields.

They were waiting for their Lord and a number of other inner circle followers, and he had little doubt that if the Dark Lord found out about his betrayal, a number of the inner circle would be quick to pile on the Dark Lord's wrath.

Bella waltzed in with her husband, followed by Rab and Dolohov, and then the Dark Lord behind him. The door slammed shut, the bones of the house groaning in protest. Regulus contained the terrified whimper that wanted to erupt, and instead sealing all his emotions and thoughts behind an impenetrable slab, locking the gates and sliding the mask of indifference into place.

They all looked expectantly towards their master, who had seated himself behind his desk. His face was slightly unnatural, warped by exposure to Dark magic and the diminishing of his soul with each Horcrux. His skin was too smooth, like someone had melted wax over the peaks and valleys of his bones, and his sharp eyes were striking, flinty but glinted red.

"Well," said Lord Voldemort, the features of his once-handsome face screwed into an ugly sneer, "It seems Albus Dumbledore has friends in useful places."

There was a general hiss of displeasure around the room.

"The plan for the DMLE was for what, Dolohov?" the man asked, his eyes shifting between blue steel and burning hate.

"Err, to replace the Department head with someone under our control," said Dolohov, nervous at being singled out, "Er, my Lord."

"And what, Rosier, had to happen for this to be put into motion?"

"The current head needed to be killed in duty, my Lord," said Rosier with an audible tremble in his voice.

"And can you tell me," asked the Dark Lord mildly, examining a fingernail "Why it is that we haven't got our man in the head position, Avery?"

"I- well, that is to say we- we-" blustered Avery.

The Dark Lord frowned, diverting his attention from the fingernail to pin his gaze on Avery.

"We were overheard by the DMLE Undersecretary in a pub discussion," squeaked Avery in a hurry.

"One who, if I'm not mistaken, immediately rushed to Albus Dumbledore and had the man in question put under a protection order, is that right Rosier?" The Dark Lord's voice was quiet but laced with poison.

"Yes, my Lord," came the answer.

"Crucio," Lord Voldemort wielded his wand lazily, and Rosier was thrown to ground writhing, teeth gritted in an effort not to scream. There was a brief interlude of terrible silence, punctuated by the dull thud of Rosier's heels into the desk as he spasmed, and then the spell stopped.

"I am... most displeased," said the Dark wizard, "If my friends and followers weren't such _fools,_ we would have the Aurors in our back pocket right now. As it were, we do not, and continue to run the risk of being disposed of when doing our duty to the Wizarding world. Do you see the problem, gentlemen?"

There was a murmur of assent, and then Lord Voldemort chuckled, "And gentlewomen, of course Bella."

Bellatrix preened under his gaze and Regulus snorted under his breath.

"Enough about that," he said, "I wish to bestow an honour on one of my most loyal servants. No, not you Bella-" the witch visibly deflated, "-Lucius, I am about to gift you an item of extreme significance."

"My Lord?" said Lucius, a greedy gleam in his eye as he stepped forward.

The Dark Lord pulled from the inside of his robes an unassuming leather-bound notepad, embossed with the numbers _1945_ in neat font.

Regulus was suddenly breathless, eyes fixed on the item. It pulsated with Darkness, although Regulus could not tell if that was because he knew exactly what the item was or because you might actually be able to sense a soul blackened and torn by evil.

Lucius looked confused as their master presented the diary Horcrux to him. Bella had a knowing gleam to her narrowed eyes, fixed intently on the prize.

"This diary alone has the power to reopen the Chamber of Secrets," Voldemort said, standing up from his seat behind the desk. A whisper rippled around the study, and the wizard gave a twisted approximation of a knowing smile, basking in the awed glances afforded to him.

"My Lord," Lucius sunk to his knees at the feet of his master, "I am honoured. I do not deserve this."

"No, you do not," said the Dark Lord, kicking the prostrating wizard aside viciously, "However, this Manor is particularly well warded. I trust you can keep it safe."

The blonde wizard nodded, cradling his bruising face in one hand and the diary to his chest with the other.

The Dark Lord nodded, satisfied, and swept back to his seat. He resumed the picture of ease and said, "You are excused. You may join us for a drink if you wish."

As much as Regulus wished he could turn tail and flee, he was a regular attendee at meeting drinks and not attending would be more suspicious. He reluctantly took a seat as most of the outer circles filed out.

"So, my most faithful friends and followers," the wizard looked contemplative, and then gave what Regulus assumed was meant to be a smile, "Tell me. What have the past few weeks brought to you?"

"Another day, another witch my Lord," said Rabastan, lazily. A shout of laughter went around the room and the Dark Lord smiled indulgently.

"Have your fun, Rabastan, but don't forgo your duty to continue the line."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Reg's found a witch too," said Bella slyly, "Informal courtship and all."

Another round of laughter and whistles went around the room, and Regulus blushed furiously. The Dark Lord held up a hand and then there was silence. He examined the Black heir with vague interest.

"You're not lowering yourself, are you Mr Black?"

Regulus met his gaze, allowing some images of Hermione to float past his Occlumency barrier. _Her peal of laughter, hair thrown over a shoulder and her golden throat smooth and exposed. Hermione flushed, eyes closed for a moment when he pulled back from her in the hallway. A feeling of fondness and affection. "_ No, my Lord. She is a Pureblood, but she is European and hasn't been raised with our customs. Mother is teaching her."

Rodolphus snorted again, "Walburga is no doubt skinning her alive for not knowing the difference between a teaspoon and a sugar spoon."

Regulus laughed along with the rest of them and gulped down a mouthful of the firewhiskey. Rabastan watched him with interest.

* * *

If you took the Slug Club dinners, added many more women, and removed any trace of intrigue or interesting conversation, you might find an afternoon tea similar to the one Hermione was enduring.

All the women were deceptively lovely – she suspected that many of them would not be quite so kind if they knew her blood status. That didn't really help the fact that the conversation was dreadfully dull and given that she had no meaningful opinion on the robe neckline cuts of the age, not exactly engaging.

The tea ( _more god damn tea,_ she thought) was lovely and the sandwiches, while not filling, were tasty. She examined the other guests, mothers and grandmothers of her timeline's classmates. Castalia Greengrass, four months pregnant with a girl, she'd told her fondly, rubbing her modest bump. A very tiny woman, shorter than even Hermione, with an enormous belly, who introduced herself as Victoria Bulstrode. A broad-shouldered, no-nonsense witch named Agnes Goyle.

"-And then of course, I told him I'd rather cut off an arm than accept a proposition from a wizard known to dine-and-dash witches like it's going out of fashion," finished up Cressida Black, second cousin or so to Regulus.

Hermione stifled a yawn. The very pregnant dark eyed witch seated next to her grinned and leaned over, "Do you find, Miss Dagworth-Granger, that Flobberworms offer more interesting topics of discussion than this drivel?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow in surprise, but responded, "No, but I might find a lecture on the breeding habits of Bowtruckles more insightful."

The witch barked out a surprised laugh, and introduced herself, "Begonia Parkinson. You'll have to excuse poor Cressy, she's been dying to tell the girls about Rab since last Saturday. She's 26 and not yet married, this is how she entertains herself."

"Maybe she should have taken up the offer then," said Hermione, as an aside while the other women continued to talk, "She might've had more exciting gossip to tell."

The other witch grinned, revealing rows of white teeth and dimples that her daughter would one day inherit.

"So, you grew up in Switzerland?" Begonia seemed to have decided that Hermione was vastly more interesting than the existing conversation.

"Yes," she nodded, casting her mind back to the map of her fictional life, sprawling across several feet of parchment in neat rows, studied nightly so she could answer any questions about her background without hesitation, "I attended the day school in Geneva, Bildung Zauber, and Papa visited us during the summer."

"I think it's amazing, what your mother is doing," said Begonia, "Raising a child alone must be hard."

"Papa visited often," said Hermione with a fond smile, "They're still married, you know, Maman just wanted me raised in her homeland, and Papa has too many business ventures here to just leave."

"Oh, I didn't know they were still married," said Begonia, looking surprised, "I suppose that's even more amazing."

The door to the drawing room opened with a loud creak, and Bellatrix entered with Regulus at her heel.

Hermione's wand arm twitched, and she resisted the urge to hex the witch.

Begonia noticed her new friend stiffen and again leaned over to murmur in her ear, "Don't worry about Bellatrix."

"What?" said Hermione, breathless and nonplussed, "Why would I-"

"Narcissa said you were sweet on Reggie," she said, knowingly, "The woman he just entered with is Bellatrix, his cousin. Black's often marry cousins, but don't worry, she's already married."

Hermione was torn between to urge to burst into incredulous laughter or leap to her feet and speed off in whatever direction was the opposite of Bellatrix.

She settled for a nervous titter, and said, "Oh I see. That is a relief."

And then Regulus was in front of them, perfectly coiffed and handsome. His hair, kept short and neat, was styled into an annoyingly impeccable quiff, and his facial features all seemed to slot together like a jigsaw puzzle of a marble statue. She'd not given much thought to his looks before, but she was suddenly self-conscious about her ill-fitting robes (bought four years ago or some fourteen years in the future at Madam Malkins) and incurably frizzy hair.

"Hermione," he greeted, giving a cordial nod to Begonia. Aforementioned witch smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

"Hi," she said, suddenly aware of the eyes of all the women on her. She shifted in her seat, "Did you enjoy your drink with your friends?"

He smiled, tight and forced at the edges, although she was sure no one else would notice, "Yes, it was good to see them again."

"That's wonderful."

"Hermione, I know you've had some lessons with my mother," he began, and Hermione was suddenly lightheaded, "I would like to enter into a formal courtship, if you'll have me."

The room exploded with a buzz of conversation. She examined him, excruciatingly aware that Walburga was doing the same to her. His eyes caught hers, giving permission, and she used a modified for of Leglimency to drop a message into his mind.

 _What are you doing?_

His eyes widened minutely, his face otherwise not shifting from its approximation of sincerity. _The Dark Lord took interest in the informal nature of our relationship._

Hermione mentally blanched, and then said out loud, "You should arrange to meet with my Papa."

Walburga gave an approving glance, and Regulus gave a sharp nod, "Very well."

"And perhaps," she continued, a little slyly, "A lady may be open to a message sent in the language of flowers."

Begonia laughed under her breath, and Regulus smiled, a radiant little grin that lit up the room. He nodded again, and then turned on his heel and left the room, unhurried.

The door thudded closed, and she was surrounded by witches excitedly chattering and asking her questions.

"How romantic-"

"You're _so_ cheeky, oh my goodness-"

"I would have melted into a puddle-"

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes, and apparently Bellatrix had similar thoughts. She didn't hold back, though, she rolled her eyes and stood up from one of the setees, sweeping out of the room with a mutter about "airheads".

Walburga stood, eventually, and told the other women they had to leave. Begonia cheerfully hugged her, and promised she'd write.

Narcissa stood to show them out, ever the perfect hostess, "You must come to our Halloween Ball. Auntie is attending, and no doubt Regulus will."

She nodded, mechanically, internally cursing the loss of another evening to empty pleasantries.

In the hallway, Walburga opened her mouth to speak. Hermione looked at her expectantly, and in her absentmindedness, walked directly into the two men speaking in hushed voices in the hall.

She stumbled, almost falling, but was righted by a pair of lithe, pale hands. Both men laughed. Hermione had stumbled through half an apology before she recognised the men and her words died on her lips.

Antonin Dolohov was broad-shouldered and stocky, his fathomless eyes analysing her with keen interest. She wanted to lurch away, shout in horror, but she was frozen under his gaze. The purple scar marring her torso throbbed painfully.

"Sorry to trip you, darling girl." The voice belonged to the pair of hands that had righted her, and she tore her gaze from the Russian to the one whose hands were still alight on her waist.

Rabastan Lestrange, yet unmarred by years in Azkaban, was strikingly handsome. His nose was perfectly straight, and his jawline was strong. He was grinning at her, a row of pearly teeth.

"That's- that's okay," she replied, realising she'd been staring at him uncomprehending for a number of seconds, "My apologies, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Quite alright," he assured her, releasing her and raked his eyes down her body and up again. She felt very exposed, all too suddenly, and crossed her arms defensively, "Rabastan Lestrange, it's a pleasure to meet you. Should I presume you are Reg's new girl?"

Before she could stutter out an answer, Walburga said, imperiously, "Yes you can presume. Do tell your father I send my greetings. Come along Hermione."

She was swept up by Walburga, more grateful than she ever thought she would be to the older witch.

As they exited the Manor and began the descent to the gates, Walburga said, "Dolohov is a foreigner with no family. He is not appropriate company. Rabastan is a flirt and a cad, and it would do you good to steer clear of him also."

Hermione thought there was little chance of her seeking out their company, so merely nodded.

* * *

 **Authors note: _stumbles into the week, drops chapter in your lap, and crawls away._ Oh my god, I have so much planned out and so little time to write. I've actually got a notepad full of plot plans and Hermione's backstory for this time and other small things but I was travelling with work this week and just couldn't manage to sit down and just write. **

**Hopefully you enjoy the chapter. Please let me know what you think and any ideas you might have. I love reading them.**

 **Some of Rab's characterisation and words are inspired by Innocence Ensnared by Heeley. It's a Rab/Reg/Hermione triad AU and I love it.**

 **Please READ AND REVIEW.**

 **All the love and cuddles!**

 **~Alycat**


	5. 5 - Illecebrous

**30 September 1979**

 **5\. Illecebrous**

* * *

 _i crave hiking at dusk_  
 _into your jagged emerald forests_  
 _and sit wistfully mid the columbine_  
 _while darkened sunflowers juxtapose_  
 _against the jet-black emptiness_  
 _enticing the stars_  
 _to etch enchanting paintings_  
 _on inky cobalt skies_

 _\- jane taylor, utah_

* * *

Hermione woke, earlier than usual and very suddenly. One moment she was dreaming, Harry and Ron by her side once more, and the next she was wide awake and breathless. The world outside was still dark, the room illuminated by the glowing coals that remained in her fireplace.

She wondered why she had awoken. Annoyed, because her sleep was limited as it was already.

Then there was a knock at the door, one she was certain wasn't the first knock. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, wincing as her feet hit the cold floors.

Regulus was at the door, fully (and impeccably) dressed and wide awake.

"Yes?" she asked, pulling down the hem of the shirt she wore to bed. It was one of Ron's, impossibly large on her tiny frame, but she felt extremely underdressed.

He averted his eyes, blushing, and asked, "Can I come in? It's important."

She stood aside to let him in and went over to the fire to re-stoke it. Unbeknownst to her, Regulus's eyes stayed glued on her as she leant over to throw a new log on the embers and stoked it. As she turned around, his eyes snapped back up to meet her gaze.

"Lucius has the diary," he said.

"I- He- oh Regulus, that's fantastic. You're brilliant." She was beaming at him. The fire flared, and her skin glowed in the warm light.

He absently noted that her eyes really did resemble the colour of cinnamon, with flecks of chocolate. Maybe he was hungry.

"I didn't do anything," he waved off her compliment, "The Dark Lord handed it over at our last meeting."

She wrinkled her nose, "He's a right arrogant bastard. Handing it over in front of everyone."

She shuffled back over to the bed and sat under the covers. She summoned a sheaf of parchment and a quill and began to write. Regulus shuffled awkwardly. She looked up, and then patted the space beside her.

It was blatantly obvious to him, just in that moment, that Hermione Granger was not like the witches he was used to socialising with. It was something he knew, logically, but he was constantly surprised. Muggleborn and from the nineties, she thought nothing of offering him a place beside her in her bed. His mother would have a coronary.

He untied his shoes and left them neatly in a row next to the robe rack, upon which he hung his outer robes. They glittered faintly in the firelight, a bottle green.

He padded over to the bed, now wearing only trousers and a white oxford shirt. He hesitated for a moment, but Hermione was not paying any attention to his discomfort. It was cold without his robes on, so he swallowed his nerves and slipped under the covers next to the small witch. He was relieved immediately, swathed in a feather cocoon. He leaned over to look at the parchment that she was scribbling on, already half filled with rows of neat text, detailing possible hiding places in the Malfoy Manor.

"Wow," he said, trying to ignore that she smelled like wood smoke and cinnamon bark. "You really know your Malfoy Manor."

"Yes, well," she said, vaguely, and Regulus could've kicked himself for the blunder.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sincerely concerned, "Was tea okay for you?"

"It was in the drawing room," she said tightly, "Of which the last I saw of it, the floor was an intimate acquaintance of mine."

Regulus paled, "Oh Gods, I'm sorry."

She sighed, "It's fine. I just... Well, I probably have PTSD."

"P... TSD?" he asked, completely lost.

"Oh, I forget you have no idea," she said, no malice at all, "It's something that happens sometimes where people have been in really traumatic situations. It stands for post-traumatic-stress disorder."

"Is it a... Muggle thing?" he ventured.

"The name is. Experiencing trauma and its aftermath isn't restricted to just Muggles though."

An image of Dorcas Meadowes, throat hacked open, flashed behind his briefly closed eyes and he nodded. "That's true."

"Can you think of anywhere else he might hide something important?"

He scanned the list. _Study, library, hidden room under the drawing room, archive behind the fireplace in the kitchen._

"You probably know more than me," he admitted, "Though I doubt he would hide it in the kitchen, that's where the house elves reside, and he'd consider it an insult to the Dark Lord."

Hermione scoffed, but carefully crossed out the _archive behind the fireplace in the kitchen._

"We'll have to produce a forgery," she said, thoughtfully. Her legs shifted slightly, pressing up against his. It seemed to burn into him. She chewed on the end of her quill. He watched the tip of her tongue flicker out of her mouth.

"Why is that?" he asked, his voice wavering momentarily.

She furrowed her brow and looked up at him, "He's been given a very important object by his Master, very recently."

"He's likely to check up on the hiding place," realised Regulus, "If we put a fake in its place, he won't realise and alert the Dark Lord."

"Stop calling him that," she said, closing her eyes and burying her face in her hands.

"The Dark Lord?" he asked, and she nodded, her face still hidden.

"If you've really abandoned him, if you're really willing to give up your beliefs to be on the right side of history. If you really don't care that I'm a Mudblood." She raised her head to look at him, and he noticed with some discomfort that her eyes were glittering with unshed tears.

"You shouldn't call-"

"I am though," she said, "Everyone I'm surrounding myself would call me a Mudblood in a heartbeat if they knew who I really was."

Regulus sighed, unsure how to respond to that when he knew she was right, "Well, Voldemort then."

She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. He stiffened, unused to casual affection. She sniffed, "I'm sorry, I was dreaming about... my friend's when you woke me."

"You said your friend destroyed the diary when you were in second year?" He asked, deciding not to question it. He leaned back into the headboard and allowed his arm to curl around her waist.

"Yeah," she said, giving a watery smile, "It was put in among the school books of Ron's sister by Lucius Malfoy. It possessed her and used it to reopen the Chamber of Secrets."

He listened to her voice telling the frankly extraordinary story of her brewing Polyjuice Potion, being petrified, and her twelve-year-old best friend defeating a Basilisk and a semi-solid reincarnation of the sixteen-year-old Lord Voldemort. He thought, in passing, that it was rather unsurprising she was suffering from PT-whatever. Somewhere over the course of this, the early hour caught up with him and he drifted off to sleep.

Hermione felt Regulus becoming limper and his breath evening out. She told herself that she didn't want to wake him, and that's why she didn't move. That's why she let her own eyes drift closed. That's why she felt a little bit safer, listening to the slow even thud of his heart beat.

* * *

Regulus woke up to the sun shining into his eyes and a crick in his neck. He'd slipped down the headboard whilst he slept, his head on a strange angle.

Hermione was asleep next to him... well, on him. Her face was against his chest, an arm and a leg thrown over him. He shifted so his head was on the pillow. She let out a tiny sigh and wriggled a little closer to him.

With the sunlight splayed across them, he was again struck by her resemblance to a beacon, radiant. Her hair was wild. It seemed to have a mind of its own, in fact. He'd seen Hermione try and tame it numerous times, but the moment she got annoyed or happy or sad it spiralled outwards, like a lion's mane.

 _She was probably a Gryffindor,_ he thought, chuckling a little. This seemed to disturb Hermione, who screwed up her face and rolled off, stretching out in the sunlight like a satisfied cat. The ridiculous shirt she had worn to bed rode up her thighs and onto her stomach, revealing an expanse of golden skin.

He had a sudden, completely insane urge to lick her stomach, to see if it tasted as much like honey as it looked. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment to regain his composure. Apparently, he had lost his mind somewhere in between almost drowning and telling his mother that he had intentionally sought out an informal courtship. _Did you tell your mother that we're fuckbuddies?_

She had settled again by the time he opened his eyes, and he noticed a jagged purple scar marring her torso. It stretched from her left hip, under her shirt diagonally. A nasty curse was his guess, the scar seemed to follow the line of a wand slashed across her. He lay on his side and reached out a hand to touch the puckered skin.

Hermione jolted awake and had her wand to his throat before he even registered she had moved. There was a moment of silence as she focussed on him and then she dropped her wand hand with a gasp.

"Oh my _gods_ Reg you scared the life out of me!"

"I'm sorry," he said, honestly, "I didn't mean to scare you, I just saw your scar."

She laughed, a little bitterly, "I have Antonin Dolohov to thank for that one."

Regulus grimaced. Dolohov was a dab hand with a wand and knew a lot of nasty Dark curses.

"I almost died," she said, quietly, "In my fifth year. Voldemort tricked Harry into thinking Si- into thinking someone he cared about had been captured. It was all a plot. Dolohov got me, Ron almost died too. And Sirius did die."

Regulus reared back, "Sirius? My brother?"

Hermione looked horrified, "I-"

"You didn't say anything," he said, furiously, "You never told me he died."

"I was hoping to prevent it, this time around," she snapped, sitting up to face him, "Like I saved you from an early grave, remember?"

"I could've helped you if I'd bloody well known!" He didn't understand precisely why he was so upset, but he couldn't think over the roaring in his head. Sirius, his brother. Sirius, brave and brash and entirely too stubborn. Cast out, furious, not speaking to Regulus from the age of fourteen, sneering at him for being a "spineless Death Eater". Sirius, dead.

Hermione's hand alighted on his arm, warm and comforting. He realised he was crying and swiped his tears aside, annoyed at the intrusion.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, "I should have told you."

"I didn't mean to shout at you," he said, "I'm not close to Sirius, but I certainly don't want him to die."

She sighed, getting up out of the bed. She seemed entirely unfussed about sleeping next to him. He almost resented the ease in which she existed in the world.

"Turn around while I get dressed," she ordered, and he realised he'd been staring at her, hair mussed from sleep and haloed by the sun streaming through the window. He muttered an apology and turned his face away, listening to the shirt thud onto the floor.

"I'm having lunch with Oberon today," she said, reappearing in his line of site wearing a set of tailored black robes, "I promised him I'd stay in contact."

"That's good," he replied, "Margaux doesn't visit him much because she's very busy with family holdings in Switzerland and France."

"So, he's lonely?" she asked.

"Not exactly," Regulus replied, "He enjoys his own company, but sometimes misses the human interactions."

"Sounds like loneliness to me," she said under her breath.

"I have a lunch meeting with Lucius and Antonin," Regulus said this almost guiltily, thinking of the purple scar across her chest. She didn't react, just nodded absentmindedly while she checked the contents of her bag.

She bid him goodbye, with a fleeting embrace, and then she was gone. Regulus wondered how long he should wait before he left, not wanting to face the line of questioning if his mother ever heard about that particular rumour.

* * *

Hermione landed on the front steps of the Dagworth-Granger Manor. She had been expecting to land on the wall, so although the lack of height was welcome, she was also very surprised.

Feeky opened the doors almost immediately, squeaking, "Young Mistress is being here, Young Mistress is here."

She followed the excited elf, amused by his antics. She realised that she must be able to land inside the wards now they recognised her as kin.

Oberon was in the drawing room as he had been the first time they met. He was decidedly more affable this time, his eyes crinkling up with his smile.

"Darling daughter of mine," he said in greeting. She smiled, bobbing a curtsey. Oberon scoffed, "Reg said you'd been seized for lessons in propriety."

"Yes, you've failed me terribly, apparently," she said, drily, "Walburga was horrified to learn that you'd never taught me how to dance."

"Terribly sorry about that," said Oberon, sounding not at all sorry.

"You're forgiven, I'm learning next week." She sat down opposite him and accepted a biscuit from Feeky with thanks.

"I'm sorry," he said again, sounding as though he meant it this time, "I can say with certainty that we Dagworth-Granger's are not burdened with a large helping of grace."

Hermione sighed, "I had hoped that maybe mingling our blood would lend me some innate ability to understand Purebloods."

Oberon laughed, a genuine, warm guffaw that somehow gave her the impression of cherry wood, "That's unlikely seeing as how I avoid them the best I can."

They fell into silence. Hermione didn't know quite what to say; the man was doing her an enormous favour that she was unlikely to ever be able to repay, but he was also not her parents. She knew exactly what to say to them, what to ask, how much to tell them. She suddenly felt quite lonely.

"Tell me about yourself," said Oberon, sensing her discomfort.

"I-" she paused, thinking. How much could she tell him? She decided, vague but truthful, "I was born about 18 years ago. My parents are dentists. I scored very well on my OWLs."

"And how did you end up on my doorstep, looking like you hadn't eaten in a month and tortured to the edge of insanity?"

She gave him a sharp, searching look.

"I know the effects of the Cruciatus Curse when I see them," he said in response, gently, "And I've not gotten the impression you'd fall into hypheragia."

"No," she admitted, "I was... on a mission. A dangerous one. We couldn't exactly waltz into a grocery store and buy a meal. And I couldn't transfigure it-"

"Gamps Exceptions, yes," said Oberon, catching on immediately, "What sort of mission was a teenage girl on that couldn't be done by someone more experienced?"

Hermione bristled, "I am perfectly capab-"

"I know you are," he interrupted before she could get rolling, "But no one should be endangering children."

She sagged into her armchair, conceding defeat, "Yes, you're right."

He eyed her sympathetically. She wouldn't meet his gaze.

"I have someone who would like to meet you," he said, changing topics.

"Who?" she asked, a little sharper than intended.

"Your mother, of course," he said, grinning like he'd told a wonderful joke.

"Margaux?" she confirmed, and he nodded with another grin.

"I told my dear wife that I had adopted a child," he said, gleefully, "She's a little put out that I would do so without consulting her, but would love to meet you, if that's okay."

"It's okay," she said hastily, "When Reg mentioned my mother, I was unsure if she really existed."

Oberon snorted into his tea, "Oh no, she's very real, I assure you. Feeky, please fetch Margie."

"Yes Master," Feeky squeaked, disappearing with a crack.

They sat in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes, and then Feeky reappeared with a crack. The woman he reappeared with was soft-eyed and golden-skinned, brown and grey streaked hair piled into an elegant updo atop her head. She had the type of enviable skin that would put her anywhere between a mature forty or an extremely youthful seventy.

To someone who had been told they were related, Margaux Glauser looked exactly like the mother one would expect. One who had learned to control her wild curls, Hermione noted drily.

"Hermione?" asked the woman, wavering with emotion.

"Yes," said Hermione, standing, unsure whether to hold out a hand to shake or kiss her on the cheek. Margaux solved the problem by sweeping her into a bone-crushing hug.

"Bonjour Hermione! It is so wonderful to meet you mon chérie! Obie did not tell me a thing of course, naughty man, but Feeky has been most forthcoming." Margaux had a throaty, slightly accented tone, kind and warm.

"It's wonderful to meet you also, Margaux," she said, carefully, overwhelmed by the deluge of speech.

" _Non,_ no formalities between us š'il vous plait. Please. You may call me _Maman."_ She said this decisively, as though it brokered no argument, "I have always wanted a daughter, but it was not to be until now. Oh, I am so _pleased_ to welcome you to the family."

Hermione's cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, and she ignored the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. She was overwhelmed with gratitude towards Regulus, finding her a family, and towards the pair before her welcoming her with open arms.

Margaux noticed her quivering lip and swept her into another hug, "No time for tears, mon chérie, Obie tells me you have much to do."

She laughed at this. The understatement of the century.

"That's true," she said, a little watery in spite of herself, "I'm just happy to be part of a family."

Oberon smiled knowingly, and they sat down again, Margaux next to her on the settee. Her hands fluttered occasionally to brush Hermione's back and arm, small touches of affection.

"Why did you not have children of your own?" asked Hermione curiously, then blanched, "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

Margaux smiled a little sadly, her eyes distant. She stood and swept aside her robes and lifted her blouse to reveal a red, angry scar slashed across her abdomen. Hermione's hand flew to her mouth.

"I was captured by Grindelwald's men in the nineteen forties," she explained, "It was not a good place for a woman to be, and they were brutal awful men. They took turns in raping and brutalising the women they captured, and I was unlucky enough to conceive. The physical evidence is undesirable, of course, so they aborted the pregnancy. And cut out my womb, just to be sure."

Oberon listened impassively, but Hermione was horrified.

"Oh Marg- Maman," she whispered, unable to produce words to communicate her sympathy.

Margaux waved it off, "It was many years ago now. I have made peace, accepted we will be childless. You, my child, are a blessing, even if I do wish Obie would give me some warning before adopting our children."

She clicked her tongue in mocking disapproval. Oberon winked.

"To complete the family bonding, we can mingle our bloodlines," said Margaux, turning back to Hermione, "Then you will truly be our famille, adopted by both."

"I accept," said Hermione, decisively, "And you have my endless gratitude."

Margaux pricked the tip of her index finger and a bright bubble of blood welled. Hermione did the same, pressing her finger to Margaux's. The older woman muttered a quiet _coniungere_ and she felt the whisps of golden magic before she saw them, writhing and twisting up their arms and disappearing, leaving only a faint fizz of exchanged magic.

Once this was done, Oberon asked what had brought her there in the first place, "I know it wasn't just the pleasure of my company, amazing though it is."

"Reg wants to approach you about a formal courtship."

Margaux and Oberon exchanged an amused, knowing glance and Hermione flushed.

"Not a real one," she clarified, cheeks still burning, "Obviously it's to further our mission."

"Obviously," echoed Oberon, a smirk gracing his face, "Well, tell him I'll consider it if he asked nicely. You can owl when you want to organise dinner, somewhere public hmm?"

She nodded her agreement, "Yes, good idea. How did you meet Reg, Oberon? He's very mum on the subject."

Oberon's expression sobered immediately, "The fool boy was nearly killed when he was roped into a revel after he joined the Death Eaters. They were trying to kill a Muggleborn, and he was stabbed in the chest, almost collapsed a lung. That cousin of his, the psycho one, and the Malfoy twit left him for dead. They Apparated him back to Hogsmeade and buggered off."

He seemed genuinely upset with Regulus of the past.

"I nearly tripped over his bloodstained body in the street after I'd closed up my Apothecary up for the night. No idea who he was, and he was still wearing his robes and mask, so I made the executive decision to take him back to the Manor and have him privately taken care of. Feeky regrew his lung and spent three days pouring restorative potions down his ungrateful gullet."

* * *

 _Regulus was weak, but aware and functional enough to leave if he wanted to. He wanted to meet his saviour first, thank him and ensure his silence._

 _He'd read the Prophet this morning, a small notice in the corner of the crime section declaring him missing, as reported by his blood traitor brother. He resented it. He hadn't cared enough not to abandon him, what gave him the right now?_

 _He was sitting by the window with a cup of tea that the elf, Feeky, had brought him when he heard the door open._

" _I heard you were awake," said a voice from the doorway. He turned slowly, fixing the short, funny looking old man with an imperious stare._

" _I am," he said, dispassionately, "Who do I have to thank for the intervention in my tragically early demise?"_

 _The older man snorted, "Certainly not your companions. How old are you, boy? Fifteen? Sixteen?"_

 _Regulus bristled, "Old enough."_

 _The older man sighed, "Not of age then. Look, boy, judging by your looks and that notification in the Prophet, I'm guessing I'm speaking to Regulus Black."_

 _His eye twitched but he didn't say a word. The man nodded knowingly._

" _Oberon Dagworth-Granger, at your service," he gave a mocking bow, "You've been out three days. I would recommend heading back to school if you don't want too many questions asked."_

 _He turned to leave._

" _My robes and mask?" asked Regulus._

" _Laundered and in the hall," said Oberon, over his shoulder, "I'd be rethinking my priorities if I were you. Followers of genocidal maniacs never end well. You wouldn't be quite so quick to follow that Voldemort fellow if you'd been alive in Grindelwald's reign."_

" _Luckily you are not me then," said Regulus coldly, "I know what I'm doing. I'd bank on you being a Muggle-loving fool that thinks Mudbloods should live among us."_

" _Don't use that filthy language in my house," said Oberon, just as coldly, "As you're well enough to leave, I would encourage you to do so."_

 _The door closed with a thump behind him, pushing a gust of air through the room to ruffle his hair. He scowled, and then took his advice and left._

* * *

 _Oberon was in the storage room out the back of his store when the bell rang, signalling a customer._

" _Just a second, just a second," he called, palming the vial of contraceptive potion that he'd come back to grab and hurrying to the storefront._

 _Regulus Black stood with his back to him, examining a shelf of rare ingredients._

 _He cleared his throat, and the younger boy turned around with a wince. His eyes narrowed when he realised who was behind the counter._

" _You," he said, an annoyed tone, "What are you doing here?"_

" _I own the store," said Oberon, snorting, "What are you doing here?"_

 _Regulus eyed him suspiciously, weighing up whether telling him was worth it. He decided it was, "I need a pain potion. The school hospital wing one is insufficient."_

 _Oberon scanned the shelf behind the counter, picking out three different vials, a purple, orange, and blue. He handed them over the counter to the boy._

" _These can be taken at the same time if you need them. Orange for swelling and bruising, blue for general pain, and purple to help you sleep."_

" _Thank you," said Regulus, stiffly, reaching for his coin purse._

" _No charge," said Oberon, "Just have a good hard think about whether you want to be on the wrong side of a war that will kill or enslave eighty percent of the magical population or follow in your fool parent's footsteps and marry your cousin to keep your bloodline pure."_

" _You don't know anything about-"_

" _I know more than you think," said Oberon with finality, "Now get out."_

* * *

"He found excuses to drop by after that," explained Oberon, "To ask about an ingredient, or an interaction between them, allegedly, but really to argue about our beliefs. He wanted to know why I thought Muggleborns were worth all the fuss, and I wanted to teach him. After a while you could tell he wasn't as gung-ho blood supremacist as when I first made his unpleasant acquaintance. He started thinking about the inconsistencies, never enough to admit it to me, but enough that his absolute faith started wavering."

Hermione nodded, transfixed.

"And that was enough, it seems, for it to push him over the edge when he found out Riddle had made a Horcrux. He told me he realised the Dark Lord was a maniac, and that the beliefs he'd grown up with were inconsistent and wildly inaccurate. Couldn't account for the majority of Mudblood's being anomalies, he said, given he now knew that many of the people he'd assumed were halfbloods at least due to their academic results were Mudbloods."

"That's when I met him," Hermione said, "He'd gone after the Horcrux in the cave. He was almost drowned by the Inferi."

Oberon's complexion took on a mottled purple look, "The cretin never fucking told me he was going after it."

Hermione looked guilty, "Ah don't be upset with him. He expected to die, you don't hand in your resignation to Riddle like that and expect to get away unscathed."

"Well he's damn lucky you were there then," said Oberon, still upset, "Would've ticked me off a mite if he'd died before we nail the bastard."

"We think there's five Horcruxes."

"That's disgusting," said Oberon, taking a sip of tea, "We've got our work cut out for us."

Hermione thought of Hufflepuff's cup nestled in the bowels of Gringott's and ruefully agreed with the assessment.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE: This chapter flowed from my fingers into a word document with surprising ease and I had difficulty succinctly wrapping it up. I hope you enjoy!**

 **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW, IT IS MY LIFE BLOOD**

 **~Alycat**


	6. 6 - Evasion

**3 October 1979**

 **6\. Evasion**

* * *

 _What keeps you standing proud and tall?_  
 _What wipes the tears off of your tender face?_  
 _What makes you smile despite it all?_  
 _What is it - hope, elation, grace?_  
 _What makes you rise again after a painful fall?_  
 _What pushes - step by step - ahead?_  
 _What still outlines evasive goals?_  
 _Is it the past, all that you've had?_

 _\- Angie, what keeps you standing tall?_

* * *

Dancing lessons sounded like a special type of hell. The weather was miserable, a biting wind and lashing rain whipping around her as she waited in Diagon Alley for Walburga, who was taking her to a small privately-owned studio for dancing lessons.

"Hermione, darling," said Walburga, raising her voice to be heard above the wind, "I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Only a few minutes," Hermione reassured her, kissing the cheek she had offered.

There was a tall man standing next to the Black matriarch, surveying her with a cold, uninterested eye. She'd eat her own arm if he wasn't a Black; sharp cheekbones and straight brows over mercurial grey eyes, he was a spitting image of what the Sirius she had known in her original timeline would have looked like if he had not spent twelve years in Azkaban. He was objectively handsome, but the sneer marring his face ruined the effect.

"My husband, Orion," introduced Walburga. Hermione bobbed a curtsy and he gave her a cursory nod, "He will be joining us for lessons today. Couldn't keep him away from meeting Reg's first attempt at courting, of course."

Hermione thought it was likely Orion was here as willingly as she was; that is to say, very unwillingly.

Walburga gripped her arm and Apparated, landing in the doorstep of a small cottage at the edge of a deep green forest. The door opened immediately, revealing a tall willowy woman with hair so blonde it glowed. Hermione blinked, temporarily dazzled.

"Good morning," greeted the glowing being, "My name is Camille Dubois."

"Hello Camille," said Hermione. "My name is Hermione."

She smiled beatifically, "Wonderful. I will be teaching you to dance today."

As she walked into the house, Hermione realised she hadn't been breathing. She gulped a breath.

"Camille is part Veela," said Orion, aside. "You may feel disoriented."

 _You don't say,_ she thought drily, but rather relieved to find that her brain wasn't shutting down for no reason. The dance teacher did look rather like Fleur Delacour.

The centre of the house was a large, round room that was walled with mirrors. There was a barre stretching around one side of the room, and an oversized gramophone sat on a small table in the corner.

"Welcome to my studio," said Camille, "I am to believe you have had no lessons?"

"No," she said, staring at the floor suddenly chagrined, "I've only had the very basics."

Fingers gripped her chin, forcing her gaze up to face Camille's sky-blue eyes.

"No matter," Camille clicked her tongue. "You are young and agile, though a bit thin."

Hermione's face coloured. Her figure was yet to recover from the months she had spent on the run, and she was painfully aware of the fact every time she bruised herself where the bones jutted out of her skin.

Camille waved a hand towards the gramophone which immediately struck up a lively waltz.

Orion stepped forward and offered his hand to her. She paused only for a moment before taking it.

"One hand in his hand, the other on his waist," instructed Camille, floating over to physically adjust her grip. "Not too tight, my dear, you are floating not gallivanting around the room like an elephant."

Hermione hastily loosened her iron grip on the elder Black's hand.

The lesson passed in a blur. Orion was uninterested in her, and it seemed in Regulus as well. She learnt a basic box step and then a more complicated waltz, and to wrap up the day a slightly more upbeat waltz.

Orion didn't change expression the entire lesson.

Hermione wondered if she would die of boredom before they defeated Voldemort.

* * *

Hermione had been asked back for tea at Grimmauld Place after the lessons. She didn't have any readily available excuse to escape so she was sitting ramrod straight in an uncomfortable armchair, listening to Walburga talking about the intricacies of cutlery placement.

She stifled a groan as Walburga gesticulated wildly about cake forks. She allowed her mind to drift for a moment, thinking of Regulus. He was doing errands today, which had to be slightly less mind-numbing than her current experience.

She realised Walburga had been looking at her expectantly, "Pardon? I drifted off for a moment, sorry."

The elder woman clicked her tongue impatiently, "I simply wanted to know how you are finding all your lessons."

"Wonderful," Hermione lied. "I had no idea of the intricacies involved. I have a lot of work to do to catch up."

"You will catch up though, dear," said Walburga, patting her arm comfortingly.

"I didn't realise how people would talk," said Hermione, carefully injecting a small note of chagrin into her confession. "The implications of an informal courtship are very different in my country and I was foolish to think it would translate directly over."

"Yes," agree Walburga, triumphantly. "I'm sorry my son didn't advise you-"

"Oh no, Reg told me. I just thought he was exaggerating."

The women shared a moment of camaraderie and an amused smile, both imagining Reg trying to explain the implications.

"Has he met your father?" asked Walburga, eagerly.

"Mmm," said Hermione with a nod, "I saw Papa last week, and Maman is in town for a couple of months so we will have dinner. Regulus knows my father from business pursuits of course."

"Of course," said Walburga. She was pleased with the progress, so asked no further questions.

* * *

Meanwhile Regulus was hurtling along the tracks leading down to the belly of Gringotts. He was charged with heir duties today, menial errands that kept the family finances ticking along. For the most part, previously he had only dealt directly with his trust account and other above-ground finances with the goblins, and his father had overseen everything else.

The Black main line account keeper was an unpleasant young goblin named Rognot. He looked, as most goblins did, a bit like a discarded leather shoe had procreated with a mountain troll and the resulting offspring had lost out on the height but gained the unfortunate skin tone and ghastly demeanour.

He was explaining how the vault levels worked as they turned a rather sharp corner and plunge through a waterfall. Regulus threw up an arm on instinct.

Rognot laughed nastily and the waterfall washed over them with the touch of a light breeze. They were dry when they reached the other side and Regulus shot the account keeper a look of confusion.

"That is the Thief's Downfall," said Rognot, sounding smug. "It washes away enchantments and trickery. A defence mechanism for our oldest accounts, yours included."

The goblin then gave a horribly insincere bow. Regulus snorted.

"Old families like the Black's and the Selwyn's?" asked Regulus, curious.

"Oh yes," said the goblin with a pointy-toothed grin, "Sekhmet help the fool who tries to rob our oldest customers. Ah, this is my favourite."

They rounded another corner and came to a screeching halt fifty feet from a hulking, writhing mass of white scales. Regulus felt his face drain of blood.

The goblin set about rustling through the bag he had brought, humming all the while. The dragon, which took up most of the magically widened passageway, swung its great head towards the noise.

"Uh," said Regulus, disinclined to tell the goblin how to do his job, but equally disinclined to be roasted alive.

The dragon faced them, eyes wide and fogged over. _Blind,_ realised Regulus, _P_ _robably been down here its whole life._

 _Poor thing,_ echoed Hermione's voice in the back of his mind, _H_ _ow barbaric._

Regulus shook his head. Now wasn't the time to begin having auditory hallucinations.

Rognot seemed to have located what he was looking for, holding up what looking like a length of chain and two saucepans to Regulus, another toothy grin directed at him.

The goblin climbed out of the cart and towards the dragon.

 _I'm going to witness deep fried goblin,_ though Regulus faintly, _and then I'm going to die a horrible, fiery death._

The goblin advanced without fear and began to clash the chains and pots together, the clanging echoing around the passageway and reverberating around Regulus's skull. He raised a hand up to cover his ear, but it stopped halfway to its destination and froze there; the dragon turned tail and ran; at least, as well as a large, blind dragon could in a relatively narrow tunnel.

Rognot returned to the cart with a malicious grin, and explained, "We taught them that when there's clanging there will be pain shortly afterwards."

"Oh," said Regulus, feeling sick. And then an idea struck him.

"Rognot," he asked, carefully considering his words, "how far does one's line need to go back to warrant a vault this deep?"

"A minimum of ten generations," said the goblin. "The lowest vaults are for families that have used our services for many years. You are our ever-so-valued customers."

"Stop the simpering, it's unbecoming," said Regulus with a frown. "So even foreign families could access it? Say, the Malfoy's or Lestrange's from France?"

"Yes," said the goblin, setting the cart off at a rolling pace again. "In fact, here's the Lestrange vault here."

Regulus, without giving himself too much time to overthink it, drew his wand quickly and cast a silent Confundus. The goblin blinked blearily around for a few moments while Regulus cycled through panic and onto determination. The cart rocked back and forth on the tracks for a moment before settling in place, still.

Committing several jailable offences simultaneously, he cast an _Imperio_ muttered under his breath. The goblin's eyes blanked and Regulus directed him to the vault entry, heart hammering.

Rognot opened the vault with ease and stood aside to let him in. Regulus moved into the mouth of the vault, eyes frantically scanning the heaping gold and discarded armour, intermingled with large jewels and some obviously Cursed items.

 _There!_ thought Regulus, heart leaping. The cup was perched precariously on the ledge above the door frame, looking as though it could fall the moment someone breathed in the same room as it. He'd taken a step towards it before he could even think about it and his hand brushed a single coin.

The coin burned and then burst into three different, identical coins. He watched the duplications bounce, _once, twice,_ and then realised grimly he'd almost grabbed a protected Horcrux in a Gringotts vault with no contingency plan whatsoever.

He shook his head to clear it. A copy would need to be made of the cup, one that held up under the Gringotts anti-theft warding. For the same reason as the diary, a replication would hold off the discovery of their treachery until, hopefully, they were in the position to destroy the Dark Lord.

Regulus wouldn't put it past Bellatrix to visit the cup weekly, maybe read it some stories. It would have to be a really good replica.

He directed Rognot back to the cart and released him from the curse with a muttered _obliviate_ to erase the last few minutes from his mind. They proceeded to the main Black vault, his heart still etching a rhythm in his chest.

* * *

When he returned home, his mother was waiting for him. Regulus contemplated turning on his heel and running away from the expression on his mother's face, one that brokered nothing good. But she'd spotted him by then, so it was no use.

"Mother," he said with a slight bow of his head, "I wasn't expecting to see you until dinner."

"I wanted to talk to you," she replied, lips pursed in disapproval.

"Oh no," said Regulus without thinking, and for a moment his mother looked like she would laugh. She quickly smoothed out the quirk in her lips to adopt a stern expression.

"I think you're taking advantage of Hermione," she said.

" _What?"_ said Regulus, nearly choking on his tongue. If he'd been sipping a drink, he probably would've spat it out.

"She is naïve about the customs of our society, and blind to the implications of certain actions," said Walburga, taking on a lecturing tone. "Entering an informal courtship under those conditions without making her aware of the connotations was not gentlemanly."

Regulus felt his face burn with mortification, "Mother. Hermione insisted on it not being formalised even after I explained it, she thought it wouldn't be seen as poorly as it is."

"Hmm," said Walburga, brow still furrowed, "She said the same thing."

"Then why don't you believe her?" Regulus snapped, irritated at the inquisition.

"I thought she might be trying to protect you," said Walburga, pursing her lips again.

"She realises now how seriously our people take it," said Regulus. "I was about to go send an owl to set up dinner with Oberon and Margaux."

His mother nodded approvingly. "Good. She deserves to be treated well."

Her face softened - actually _softened_ as she spoke. Regulus blinked. And then blinked again, certain he was hallucinating. His mother did not _soften,_ she didn't care for other people, only what they could do for her.

* * *

Hermione felt her muscles physically relax as the bell jingled when she opened the door of Flourish and Blotts. The crisp smell of parchment and leather activated the pleasure centre in her brain, bringing back a flood of memories of the Hogwarts Library and Grimmauld Place, not in this timeline but in her own.

She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the nostalgia, and then began to make her way through the narrow aisles, teetering towers of books stacked impossibly high, in front of bookshelves that were packed so tightly they groaned.

She was looking for books on house elf magic and time travel. Grimmauld Place had precious little on the former, likely because most of the family didn't consider house elves to be anything more than convenient indentured servants, and limited books on the latter. She paused in front of a stack of books that were centred on the topic of magical creatures.

A hand caressed her waist and she felt breath on the back of her neck. She froze, and then spun around with her wand raised. Rabastan Lestrange stepped back with his hands raised. His hair was out of his customary ponytail, burnt sienna locks framing his sharp cheekbones, a rakish grin splitting his face.

"Stand down, darling girl," he laughed, unconcerned by the wand at his throat. "It is only me."

Hermione let a huff of breath through her nose, heart in her throat. It took a couple of seconds for her heart to stop beating so wildly it felt like it was choking her and allowed her to speak.

"Mr Lestrange, you shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

He grinned, handsome face boyish and mischievous. Hermione reminded herself firmly that this was a man who had tortured Neville's parents to insanity. She swallowed nervously.

"Ah but then I wouldn't get to see you all flustered like," replied Rabastan, tweaking her chin. She repressed a shudder and pulled her face away from his hand with a sniff.

"It isn't nice," she said, and then turned back to the tower of books, fully intending to ignore him. There was a thick tome labelled _Wizards and Magical Companions – A Comprehensive History of House Elves._ She edged it out of the tower of books, which teetered back and forth for a moment. Rabastan put out a hand to steady it, clearly unphased by her cold shoulder.

"Thanks," she said stiffly, side stepping around him to make her way to the back of the store. There was a small nook of armchairs to read in, a gas lamp above it. She took a seat and noted with some irritation that Rabastan had followed her and taken the chair opposite.

"How'd you meet Reggie?" he asked, craning his neck to try and read the title of the book.

"He knows my father," said Hermione blandly, opening the foreword and beginning to read.

"Oh yeah, Obie," said Rabastan, getting up and leaning on her chair to lean over her shoulder. His breath brushed over her face, warm and sweet. "Why are you reading about house elves?"

"I think they're fascinating," she replied without thinking. "House elf magic is incredible, and most wizards are too arrogant to care what their slaves can do."

He barked a laugh out, "That's because their sole purpose is to serve."

"They're forced to serve," snapped Hermione, finally tearing her eyes away from the text to glare at him. "If wizards could get their heads out of their own arses and practise some critical thinking, they'd realise house elves are a hell of a lot more intelligent and powerful than they seem to think."

Rabastan grinned, "Ooh, firecracker."

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to her book. Then a thought struck her, like lightening. Rabastan was a _Lestrange._ He would have access to the Lestrange family vault. It would be beneficial to ingratiate herself to him.

Her stomach roiled at the thought. Regulus was one thing. Working beside him was easy at least in part because she'd never faced him on a battlefield, never desperately fought tooth and nail to win because losing meant dying. Rabastan, handsome and carefree and flirtatious as he was right now, had been a real threat.

The Department of Mysteries battle had branded her subconscious with the image of every single Death Eater there, sharp eyed and bloodthirsty. And she especially remembered Rabastan, arm poised and _Avada Kedavra_ half snarled, before Harry had bodily tackled the man to the ground. That wasn't even exploring the horror of watching his head revert to a baby's, wailing, on the body of a war-hardened man.

Still. That would never happen, if she got her way. If she could destroy all of Voldemort's Horcruxes and render him mortal, if she could kill him herself. Before any of the future she remembered could happen.

"What are you thinking about, darling girl?" Rabastan's voice interrupted her thoughts just as she'd concluded she would have to put up with him if it meant having a chance to get the Cup.

"Just wondering why you've taken an interest in me. I'm hardly an exciting persual," said Hermione, sweetly. Flirting was never her area of expertise – books could only teach you so much there – but she utilised a trick from Lavender's repertoire, lowering her head demurely and peeking up at him through her lashes.

Rabastan looked delighted, "Well, you caught Reg's eye."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Hermione, genuinely curious.

"Reg and I like the same type of girls," Rabastan replied easily, leaning into the chair back. This left Hermione wedged awkwardly into the armchair trying not to shudder everytime Rabastan examined her hungrily out of the corner of his eyes. "We've been locked in a competition since our school days."

Hermione scoffed, "You're interested because of some stupid schoolyard rivalrly?"

He shrugged, unheeding of how childish he sounded, "It went beyond school. He was hot for Dorcas Meadowes for a bit, after school ended, so that one was interesting. He was genuinely into her." He laughed. "She was a half-blood, of course, usually only good for a shag. Filthy, but a step above Mudbloods. She was lots of fun."

He grinned and looked to her at this point, as though expecting her to laugh. She managed a weak smile. "What happened with her?"

"She was killed by the Dark Lord," he said casually, as though he was discussing the weather. "For being an uppity bitch, trying to drag a Pureblood down to her level. Even that one was weird, the Dark Lord killed her himself. Made Reg watch and ripped out her throat."

He laughed again and Hermione had a sudden urge to vomit.

"Yeah, he was seriously cut up about her dying too. Weird thing that." He looked contemplative, then looked back at her, raking his eyes over her, "So yeah, I'm curious 'cus Reg's gotten over his weird blood traitor thing, just for you."

"You're disgusting," said Hermione, quietly. She was completely unable to keep her voice from shaking.

Rabastan raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"You English Purebloods are so fucking blasé about spilling blood. Spilling _magical_ blood, if you want to be elitist about it. If you really cared about preserving the culture or whatever other rubbish you use to justify your bigotry, you'd want to teach half-bloods and Muggleborns about the customs and cultures, let them access family libraries and encouraging them to track their families, find the Squib branches and find out about their family magic."

She met his gaze, eyes blazing and hair crackling with barely controlled magic, "That you are content, _happy,_ to just go around mindlessly killing those who aren't exactly the same as you only proves that you're just an oblivious pawn committing violence for no reason."

She restrained herself, barely, from sneering at him, telling him that his _Master_ was a _mere halfblood._ She stared at him, wild-eyed and chest heaving.

He looked gobsmacked. There was a beat of silence, and then another.

And then he burst into laughter, slapping his knee, tears of mirth appearing in the corner of his eyes. She watched him impassively as he contained himself, wiping the tears away.

"Oh, my darling girl. You are a fiery one, no?" He chuckled, tipping her chin back with an index finger. Cinnamon eyes met burnt umber, bold and fearless. "Say, will you marry me?"

"I'd rather kiss the Giant Squid," she said savagely.

Rabastan laughed again, and then muttered, "I have a much better idea." He dipped his head to fit his lips over hers and gripped her chin to hold her in place.

A roaring rung in her ears and she paused only a moment before rearing back and bringing her hands up roughly to shove him back from her with unexpected strength.

"Don't fucking touch me," she seethed, wiping a shaking hand across her mouth in disgust. "Don't come near me."

Rabastan smirked and raised a hand to caress her face. She hit it away, accidentally releasing a wandless Stinging Hex in her rage. Rabastan yelped, holding the hand to his chest.

Hermione pushed past him and walked away without a backwards glance. Rabastan stared after her, more intrigued than ever.

* * *

He met Lucius for lunch shortly afterwards and recounted the tale.

"No wonder no one will marry you, you brute," snorted Lucius, cutting into his steak. "You're lucky she didn't castrate you."

"She did worse!" protested Rab. "She damaged my pride."

Lucius raised a perfectly groomed pale eyebrow, "And how did she do that?"

"She said she'd rather kiss the Giant Squid," he said petulantly, voice wounded.

Lucius frowned, "How does she know about the Giant Squid? I'm sure she wasn't a Hogwarts student; Regulus said she was educated in Europe."

Rab shrugged, unconcerned. "Dunno, Reg probably mentioned it."

* * *

 **Authors Note: I had so much fun with this chapter - I know some reviewers and PMs indicated they wanted to see more of Rab, I already had this planned and had a grin to myself. I hope this fulfills that itch, even though there wasn't any interactions between Hermione and Reg. Don't worry, that's coming up!**

 **Let me know what you think! PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!**

 **~Maeve**


	7. 7 - Endorsed

**Authors Note about my Hermione:** _An absolutely charming guest review has asked that " **if [I] write "sh*tskin" Hermione, [I] need to tag POC Hermione"**. I have zero idea why someone would take the time to make such a disgusting, unecessary, and racist comment but I've got this to say - I'm pretty certain Hermione was written as a white girl, from the perspective of the author. Author's tend to write most characters as their own race. _

_I haven't deviated at all from the description of physical appearance presented in the canon books - her skin colour was never explicitly mentioned apart from a comment on her "browness" after a holiday in PoA and a number of times she is described as white faced in fear or blushing. It is 100% within the realm of possibilities for Hermione to be of a not-strictly-white ethnic background. Even if I had, I'm under no obligation to provide you with a rundown of all my characters before you read it._

 _Hermione is the daughter of two dentists and a Muggleborn. That's pretty much the extent of what we know about her background. I've elaborated on this - because it's fanfiction and I have creative license within my own stories. In this case it explores her various ethnic backgrounds as a part of a wider discussion of heritage. As it so happens, this means I've also added a descriptor of her skin colour (that doesn't contradict canon anyway)._

 ** _If you don't like it, you can die mad about it._**

* * *

 **10 October 1979**

 **7\. Endorsed**

* * *

 _endorse yourself, a man akin to modeled clay',_  
 _the street, the glass, the smoke, no mirror,_  
 _only painted scenery, the backstage props_  
 _you think of as reflection._

 _\- James Khan, Piebald_

* * *

Regulus didn't bother knocking when he arrived anymore. If Hermione was awake (which she often was), she was already up and about. If she was asleep, Regulus would read quietly in the corner and contemplate the death of his long-held beliefs.

He didn't let Hermione see his struggles; he didn't think he could stand seeing her face crumple in disappointment. Every part of his upbringing, from the snide remarks from his parents to the permanently stuck Daily Prophet articles about Voldemort's uprising on his bedroom wall, contradicted her very existence as a warm, intelligent, graceful Mudbl- Muggleborn.

Ugh. He couldn't even control the way his thoughts automatically ran. He swiped his hand over his eyes viciously until stars sparkled in his vision and then opened the door to the room.

Hermione was standing in front of the wardrobe mirror trying to wrestle her hair into some semblance of order. She was wearing a set of pale green dress robes that complimented her bronze skin tone wonderfully. An owl was waiting to be let out the window.

"Hi," he said, watching the witch struggle, his lips fighting desperately to not break into a grin.

She turned and smiled, as well as one could with their wand between their teeth and both hands seemingly tangled in their mass of hair, "Re-ooh-us."

"Pardon?" he snorted, crossing the room to relieve her hands of their duty. He began piling her hair onto the top of her head.

She pulled the wand from between her teeth, "I _said, '_ Regulus!'." She ruefully watched his nimble fingers slip pins into her hair with surprising ease, "Now that's unfair. How do you do that?"

"Sirius and I both kept our hair long when we were young," he said by way of explanation. Hermione examined him in the mirror, his brow furrowed and lip bitten in concentration, and tried to imagine him with long hair. He caught her gaze in the reflection and raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Just trying to imagine you with long hair," she said. "Your father looks a lot like Sirius in my timeline."

"You met my father?" he asked, securing the last pin.

"He taught me how to dance," she said, her nose wrinkling. "It was an uninspired lesson."

"Father isn't famous for his sparkling personality."

"Camille says I have a ' _reasonable amount of grace'."_ she quoted with a smile.

"That's close to the highest compliment she gives, to be frank."

Hermione giggled, the weight of the world briefly lifting from her shoulders. Regulus drank in her expression, nose wrinkled and eyes screwed shut with mirth.

Another lie from his upbringing. Mudbloods weren't meant to be _pretty._ Hermione was pretty.

Not conventionally beautiful, not perfectly poised and buffed until she shined like the well-bred but boring women his mother favoured the company of, but _pretty_. Her lips were slightly out of proportion, the bottom a tad too full for the top; her figure was still a touch too skinny, her collarbones and spine jutting out from under her skin which was scarred and bruised, and her posture was slightly defensive (he couldn't blame her for that).

But she was fierce. Her eyes danced with mirth and fire, ready to argue or laugh in equal parts. Her hair, disastrous in its very nature, was somehow still appealing in its wildness. Already strands were escaping the carefully placed pins to form a fuzzy halo in the dusk light coming through the window. She was a whirlwind of blazing flames and shards of ice all woven together into a wonderfully intricate three-dimensional witch who contradicted every bit of Pureblood ideology that had been etched into his skull since birth.

Hermione finished laughing, wiped a tear from her eye, and sighed contentedly, "I never said thank you, but I wanted to."

"Thank you for what?"

"Oberon and Margaux," she said. "You've given me a family in this time. I can't see my parents..."

She trailed off and bit her lip, clearly upset. Regulus reached desperately for another topic, "Did you find anything at Flourish and Blotts the other day?"

Her expression immediately darkened, and Regulus gave a brief thought as to why exactly he managed to stick his foot in it with near-perfect consistency.

"Yes, I discovered some single-celled organisms can dress themselves in a pair of robes and call themselves Rabastan."

Regulus understood about four of the words she had just said. "Rabastan? As in Rab Lestrange?"

"Yes," she said, her eyebrows drawn into a scowl. "He's taken to accosting me on the street, so fascinated he is by the witch that has caught your attention."

Regulus barked out a laugh, "Sorry, I shouldn't laugh. I'm just imagining your expression with Rab trying on any of his usual tricks on you."

She groaned and put her eyes in her hands, "He's the best bloody chance we've got at getting into the vault though, I'm going to have to figure out how to put up with him long enough to get into it with him."

"Hermione, I-"

"And not to mention keep enough of a distance that he doesn't try to fucking _kiss_ me again." Her face was a close approximation of utter disgust.

"I- actually, what? Actually, never mind," said Regulus, head whirling. "I actually figured out the cup- you kissed Rab?"

Hermione ignored his last question, shrieking in an unholy pitch and throwing her arms around him. Regulus froze for a moment before wrapping his arms around her and lifting her tiny frame off the ground. His mouth was full of hair and his senses filled with the smell of smoke and chai tea.

"Not that I'm complaining," he said a moment later, "but what exactly was that ungodly sound for?"

Muffled into his shoulder came the reply, "I'm just particularly grateful there won't be unnecessary socialisation with Lestrange."

She released him and stepped back, a flush high on her cheekbones. Regulus felt the absence of her warmth.

"So, what's the magical answer to our Gringotts woes?" she prompted after a moment. Regulus shook his head to clear it.

"It involves a number of life sentences in Azkaban if we are caught," he said, a wry smile on his lips. "I was able to check the vault today whilst I was doing heir errands."

"How on earth did you manage that?"

"The Lestrange vaults are on the same level as the Black vaults. If we bypass the security detail before Imperiusing the goblin, we're able to access the Lestrange vault."

Hermione winced and looked conflicted, "Is the Imperius necessary?"

"Do you fancy trying to convince a _goblin_ to help you steal?" he asked incredulously, and then quoted, " _If you seek beneath our floors/A treasure that was never yours/Thief, you have been warned, beware/Of finding more than treasure there."_

She winced again, "I know, I know. It just feels... ick."

Regulus ignored the prick of conscience, "The cup is there. We'll need to have a decent copy of the cup that is able to hold up against Gringotts anti-theft warding and Bella's enthusiasm."

"I imagine she visits the bloody thing daily to sing nursery rhymes and rock it to sleep."

Regulus laughed again and then repeated his own thoughts, saying, "And reads it a bedtime story."

Hermione snorted and then caught sight of the time, "We're going to be late if we don't hurry. Could you let the owl out? She has a letter for Begonia."

She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of shoes, strappy sandals with a small heel. They were different to her usual unfailingly sensible clothing choice and Regulus rather liked the effect.

They were meeting Oberon and Margaux publicly to establish a courtship, a move that Regulus had assured her was likely to be written about in the papers. Margaux hadn't been seen in Britain for nearly two decades.

"How are you planning on having me along on your trip into the vault?" she asked, slipping on a shoe and leaning down to secure the strap. "I wouldn't think it standard to have a friend along for your family duties."

"We're about to enter a formal courtship, I'll just tell mother I'm taking you down to find some jewellery."

Hermione made a face but didn't comment. Changing the topic, she asked, "How did Oberon and Margaux meet? Are they really married?"

"Oh yes, they're married. It was a big scandal when it happened. Did Margaux tell you anything...?" he trailed off, suddenly unsure he should be sharing Margaux's story.

"About Grindelwald's men? Yes."

"Okay. Well Oberon was part of the brigade that rescued her and a couple of other girls from the manor house they were being held at. Most of the girls were okay; I mean, a bit traumatised, but physically well. Margaux was in pretty bad condition though, and so Oberon did what he does best and took her home and nursed her back to health."

"That does seem to be a regular activity of his," agreed Hermione.

"Her parents basically disowned her when she contacted them and they found out she'd been raped and rendered infertile. She was no longer a good marriage prospect and couldn't produce an heir, so she was useless to them."

"That's awful."

Regulus nodded in agreement, "Yes. Margaux stayed with Oberon and Feeky until an old friend from Switzerland came to visit and proposed to her. It would've put her back in her parents' circles and probably fixed the relationship, so she was considering it. Oberon realised he didn't want her to leave and asked her to marry him instead."

"Were they in love?" she asked, curious.

Regulus shrugged, "They're at least very fond of each other. Oberon really does spend summers in Switzerland with her, and she visits the manor reasonably frequently. She was able to reconnect with her parents because a rich English Pureblood was a good match even if they couldn't produce an heir, but it changed her view on blood purity forever. Oberon, of course, is from a historically grey family so blood purity was never something he subscribed to."

They walked down the stairs and onto the street, her hand lighting on his bicep. Oberon and Margaux were waiting on the Diagon Alley side of the Leaky, and they met them there.

Margaux embraced her enthusiastically, "It is wonderful to see you. I have missed you."

Hermione beamed at the pair of them, "I missed you too Maman. And Papa, of course."

"We're dining at a French restaurant, _Cuisine Magique,"_ said Oberon. "It is quite central. I apologise for the fuss that will be made."

"No problem Obie," said Regulus, and then turned to Margaux and gave a sweeping bow before brushing a kiss over the back of her hand, "It is a pleasure to meet you Margaux. Hermione and Oberon speak very fondly of you."

"A pleasure," said Margaux warmly, curtsying with enviable ease. "I have heard much about you also."

Oberon and Regulus began walking ahead of the two women, chatting in low tones. Margaux gave a wide smile and they began to follow, "Regulus is very charming."

"Mhmm," said Hermione, not meeting the older woman's eyes. "And very polite."

"A good match," said Margaux in an approving tone. "Handsome and kind. If you're looking."

Hermione's face warmed, "I'm not in the position to think about things like that. I'm too busy trying to prevent the end of the world, I can't afford the distraction."

Marguax smiled kindly, "Don't deprive yourself my dear. I will not push, but do not ignore a chance at love."

They walked the remaining distance in companionable silence.

When they entered the restaurant there was a whisper around the room, nudged ribs and undertones, and curious gazes. The maître d' showed them to a small private room at the rear of the restaurant.

They had only been seated a moment when there was a quiet knock on the door. Oberon said, "Come in."

A tall, slim blonde girl ducked her head through the door. She clutched a notepad and ballpoint pen in one hand but was dressed neatly in lurid pink dress robes.

"Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt. I work for the Prophet and was hoping to get a couple of lines and a photo. Sorry. My boss'll kill me if he finds out I missed out."

"Come in, what was your name?" Margaux immediately took charge of the situation, summoning a spare chair.

"Asta Warrington. A pleasure to meet you, Ms Glauser. You've made quite a stir with your return." Asta sat heavily into the seat, fidgeting nervously.

"You know Regulus Black of course?" said Oberon, a hand on Regulus's shoulder. Asta caught his eye, a deer in the headlights moment if Hermione had ever seen one, and then dropped her gaze and flushed a deep pink.

Regulus looked startled, "Hello Asta."

"Hi Reg," she mumbled.

There was a beat of silence and then Margaux leaned forward with a hand on Hermione's shoulder, "And our daughter, Hermione."

Asta wrenched her gaze from the table top and stared openly as Hermione, her mouth slightly agape, "I didn't know you had children."

"As I wanted it," grunted Oberon, settling into his chair. "However, she's of age now and her mother insists I have her trained in our ways before I set her loose on our British investments."

Hermione smiled and held out her hand in offering, "I'm Hermione Dagworth-Granger. Delighted to make your acquaintance."

Asta took her hand and shook it, "Are _you_ the reason Margaux is back in Britain then?"

"Yes," said Margaux. "We raised her in Switzerland, Obie split his time between here and Geneva. She's here now she's finished school to learn about the rituals and customs of British mages, as they're rather stuffier and more formal than the Swiss."

Asta examined Hermione with renewed interest, "That sounds fascinating. Would you have tea with me one day?"

She then seemed to realise what she'd said and flushed again, "I mean, if you want to."

"Sure," accepted Hermione, "that would be lovely."

The blonde girl gave a sharp nod and then turned her eyes back to the other side of the table, "So what is Reg doing here?"

Regulus flushed, "I... er- I am, that is to say teaching... Hermione the ins and outs of... of, er, courting. We... we've been informally courting."

 _Did you just tell a reporter that we're fuckbuddies?_ asked auditory-hallucination Hermione. Regulus wondered if there was a spell he could cast silently that would allow him to sink through the floor. His collar suddenly felt tight and itchy. He was certain his face was glowing.

Asta also coloured and averted her gaze, "Oh- I see... er... sorry. I mean... congratulations."

The room felt inexplicably warmer.

"Well, we might get some dinner now if that's okay, Asta," said Margaux after a moment. "How about you take a picture of us all at the table?"

Asta nodded eagerly and stood. There was a bright flash as their wide smiles and formal clothes were immortalised. Hermione gave brief thought as to whether it was wise to have physical evidence of her presence in this timeline when ( _if)_ she returned to her own, but it was too late. Asta squawked out a thanks and scurried from the room.

The door slammed shut and Hermione cast a _muffliato_ and another complex warding that would keep out Animagus and equipment like Extendable Ears.

"So," said Oberon, turning to examine the younger pair in equal parts, "this mission of yours, tell me how it's going."

Hermione looked around nervously, "Should we be discussing this in public?"

"I've ordered a set menu that will appear in front of us when it is ready," said Oberon, "We are as safe discussing it here as in the Manor."

"We have a plan of sorts," said Regulus. "One of the... of the Horcuxes is in my cousin's Gringotts vault."

"Gringotts?" said Oberon, eyebrow raised. "That's brave. Have you ever seen a wizard disembowelled with a pickaxe?"

"No," said Hermione, a little green. "We need to organise a realistic forgery."

"One that will hold up against Gringott's anti-theft warding," added Regulus.

Oberon regarded them seriously, "I don't think you fully understand. Goblins know _everything_ that goes on in their bank. However it is you found out the location of the Horcrux, I'd put money on it being worth a life sentence in Azkaban if they choose to disclose it to the Ministry."

"I Oblivi-" started Regulus. Oberon silenced him with a glance.

"Do you really think that Goblins, knowing the existence of things like the Imperius Curse and Obliviation, don't have a failsafe to record who and what goes in and out of their vaults?"

Hermione looked sick. Regulus snapped his mouth closed, and then said, "What choice do we have then?"

Oberon sighed, "I think you don't have much of one, lad. I know a goblin who owes me a favour. I will put you in contact with him."

"Thank you," said Regulus.

"What have you learned this week, Hermione?" asked Margaux. Hermione made a face.

"How to waltz and flutter my eyelashes," she said flatly. "I feel like it's not going to help much in the scheme of things."

"Perhaps not now, but it's never a bad thing to know how to waltz," assured Margaux.

"Tell me, is Regulus going to ask me proper to court my daughter?" ribbed Oberon, sending a pointed look at Regulus, who grimaced.

Hermione laughed. Then the laugh trailed off when she realised no one else was. Regulus looked serious and contemplative.

"Are you sure you want your family linked with mine?" he asked, ignoring Hermione's questioning look. "If or when, at the end of all of this, Hermione disappears, a connection to my family is not going to look great for you."

"Or for you, Reg," said Oberon. "You need to think seriously about the implications of having your betrothed disappearing without a trace."

"My family is used to scrutiny," Reg shrugged, seemingly unconcerned.

"I would endorse a courtship between you and my daughter, if it were real." said Oberon. "Mark it down, I consider Hermione my daughter in every sense of the word. She is my responsibility, and I trust you with her. I have no qualms about endorsing it if you ask properly."

Regulus nodded, "I'll prepare a contract."

"A _contract?"_ interrupted Hermione. Both men turned back to her. Her hair was bursting out of the pins and snapping with a mixture of magical energy and righteous indignation.

"Hermione-" tried Oberon.

"Stop speaking about me as though I'm not here!" she cried, embarrassed to find tears prickling in her eyes. "A _contract,_ I'm not a bloody object to be bought and sold."

She felt like there was a brick pressing into her chest and breathing was suddenly a chore. Light headed and heavy hearted, thoughts in a whirl.

"I'm the one stuck here, without my friends or my family, some of them aren't even bloody born," she was past the point of caring, letting every passing thought and resentment roll off her tongue and drop into the room. "I've come from the middle of a fucking war straight smack bang in the middle of _another war_ except this time I can't cry on Harry's shoulder or play chess with Ron, or crawl into Dad's lap and listen to him talk about prehistoric dental tools or whatever else he's chosen as a topic of interest, or sit down to breakfast and do a crossword with my Mum, or, or..."

She took a great shuddering gasp of air, out of breath and unable to continue. The remaining three occupants were looking at her, varying expressions of sympathy on their faces.

She burst into tears.

"I- I didn't mean to take it out-" she took another gulp of air, "I'm sorry. Y-you'll have to excuse me."

She turned on her heel and bolted out of the room, head down to hide the tears rolling down her cheeks and her reddened eyes and nose.

Regulus stared open mouthed after her, and then an idea occurred to him. He turned to Oberon, "Do you know how to find her parents?"

Oberon nodded, "I have some idea. You'll need to go into the Muggle world."

Regulus nodded, "I'll do whatever I need to."

* * *

Hermione had taken off her shoes and dress robes the moment she had closed and locked the door of her room. She didn't want Regulus to follow so she had also locked the door.

She was curled up in a ball on a chair in front of the fire wearing Harry's Quidditch jersey, eyes dry but still bloodshot and puffy. The jersey still smelled faintly of Harry, the woody scent of the broom polish and a clean mixture of Hogwarts standard laundry and castile soap that they had all been using to wash whilst on the run.

It wouldn't smell like him for much longer. Ron's shirt had lost its scent too quickly, the shampoo and mowed-grass scent she had first smelled in the Amortentia in their sixth year. She'd found herself desperately cycling through the clothes that had been left in her beaded bag – they had not all been packed when the Snatchers had arrived. She'd even found a cardigan Ginny had left in her room that she'd packed before they'd gone on the run, the floral-and-woody mixture comforting in a way she never would have anticipated.

She might not make it back. _She might not make it back._ The words had been thundering around her skull, beating an incessant melody of misery into her brain since she had left the restaurant an hour earlier.

It was a reality she had been avoiding thinking about from the second she had found herself watching Regulus being dragged into the lake by Inferi, legs still shaking and throat still stinging from the burn of the Cruciatus Curse and the bite of Bellatrix's knife. She had reacted on instinct – _she couldn't let someone drown –_ and she hadn't allowed herself to sit and think about it since.

Even if all went to plan, no hitches or fatalities, there was no guarantee that they'd even figure out how to get her back to her own timeline. There wasn't even a guarantee that she would have somewhere to return to, nowhere recognisable. If Harry Potter grew up without the looming threat of Voldemort, there would be no troll to rescue her from. No reason for them to bond. She might just end up an annoying know-it-all in the background of his house.

Her heart clenched painfully at the thought.

She would make a life in this timeline. Do some extra research, figure out how timelines actually worked and how she could mitigate the obvious paradoxical issue of a concurrent timeline in which she might meet the little girl who had been born two days before she arrived in 1979.

She sniffled and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. Tomorrow she would tackle a more permanent place for her here. Tomorrow she'd think a little harder on the method of Cup-duction that was least likely to result in a public display of their entrails.

She dragged herself over to the bed and sleep engulfed her immediately.

* * *

 **AN: Thank you for all the follows and favourites and kind reviews and PMs! I enjoy reading and replying to as many as possible, and it's honestly an actual privilege to have access to an awesome group of readers who like to express their views and ideas in the comments!**

 **That one racist guest reviewer who doesn't even have the gall to put their name on their comment - thanks for the bolster in reviews. You've gotten me a dozen new readers and a productive discussion on the merits of headcanons in fanfic. Hope y'all can find it in yourself to stop using racial slurs and treat people with respect.**

 **Watch out for the next chapter to see an appearance from the Marauders - I know some people have been looking forward to meeting them here!**

 **Tell me what you think of the chapter - PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!**

 **~Maeve**


	8. 8 - Eradicated

**Authors Note: Sirius's nickname is pronounced like "S-ear".**

* * *

 **11 October 1979**

 **8\. Eradicated**

* * *

 _War._  
 _One syllable._  
 _Three letters._  
 _Such a simple word._

 _Why then does it have such an immense power?_  
 _The power to break people._  
 _The power to eradicate it all._

 _\- carole, War_

* * *

Remus sat across the table from Sirius, allowing himself a brief moment to soak in the sunlight and enjoy his tea before he hurried off the work at the book shop for the day. Sirius, haggard after a cheery night of firewhiskey, was reading the Prophet and eating a slice of toast with his eyes half closed.

James wandered in as Sirius sat up in his chair and said, "I thought the Dagworth-Granger's were a Light family."

James leaned over his shoulder to glance at the paper, "They're pretty neutral, but definitely not Dark. Hey, isn't that your brother?"

Sirius scowled, "Yes. Must've pulled the wool over their eyes, says the Dagworth-Grangers are pursuing a courtship for their daughter."

"I've never heard of the Dagworth-Granger's having children," said James, leaning over Sirius's shoulder to read again.

"Not raised in Britain," Sirius read aloud, then sneered, "How nice, they'll have Death Eater brats running around in no time."

"Or it could mean your brother is leaning more neutral," suggested Remus.

Sirius burst into laughter, "My brother? Have you lost your marbles, Moony? He's had newspaper articles about Voldemort wallpapered in his bedroom since he was twelve."

James looked thoughtful, and then he caught a glimpse of the time, "Jesus Sir, you need to get your arse to work. Moody won't be happy if you're late."

"Yeah yeah," he grumbled. "Serves him right for lulling me into a false sense of security by not rostering me on for a week."

The two other men rolled their eyes, used to his complaints about his boss.

When he arrived on level two, the office was in chaos. Barty Crouch, head of the DMLE looked irritable, a contingent of harried looking security-wizards following at his heel, and the floor was buzzing with activity.

"Look what the cat dragged in," snarked a feminine voice from somewhere to his left. Sirius took his gaze off the even-more-than-usual-annoyed Crouch to turn it on his companion, a tall and willowy young woman with dark hair tangled in tight curls down her back.

Marlene McKinnon was leaning against the door into their shared office, arms crossed and hazel kohl-lined eyes examining him. Her perfectly-painted wine-red lips stretched into a lazy grin, "Thought Moody had finally taken you out back and shot you."

"Nah, he thinks Muggle killings are way too messy," replied Sirius, grinning back.

"Well, buckle yourself in Sir, things have gone batshit while you had your little break," she leaned back into the office and pulled out a disposable cup of coffee, "Here, you're gonna need this."

Sirius made a face at the Atrium cafeteria branding – the coffee could, at best, be described as 'swill' - but took it anyway, "What's up with the private security detail with Grouch? He doesn't look impressed."

"Yes, that," said McKinnon, looking troubled. "There were serious concerns about an assassination attempt. Some unnamed thugs talking about it in a pub."

"Someone tried to kill Barty? Can't imagine why," Sirius snorted. McKinnon looked annoyed.

"It's not a joke Black, it's Voldemort again. He wants control of the Department, in particular the Aurors."

Sirius shrugged a shoulder, "I'm just mad I missed out on all the excitement. Moody didn't roster me on."

"No need to be so fucking blasé," she snapped. "People are only, oh, I don't know, _dying."_

She turned her back on him and stalked into the office, her hair almost hitting him in the face. He followed behind, "Woah, McKinnon, are you okay? I didn't mean to..."

He trailed off when she turned back to him, eyes glittering with tears. She swiped viciously at them, smearing a little kohl, and then said in a clipped tone, "Sorry. That was unnecessary. Michael was killed last week when he was investigating Death Eater activity in Edinburgh."

"Oh shit," said Sirius. Michael McKinnon was Marlene's brother, older by about a decade but they were very close. "Fuck, I didn't know. I'm sorry."

Marlene sniffed and nodded, "It's okay, I know you didn't mean to upset me. I'm trying to just get on with things but... well, it just sucks, you know?"

Sirius held his arms aloft in offer and she hugged him, her tears soaking into the standard black robes the Auror corps wore. He rubbed her back comfortingly.

They stayed like that for a couple of moments, and then McKinnon straightened up and readjusted her robes, the emotions being shuttered behind an impenetrable barrier. The only sign of her tears was the slightly smudged black and bloodshot eyes.

"Thanks Sir," she said. "We've got a meeting at quarter past for middle-ranks."

She marched out the door without a backward glance and Sirius trailed behind her, slightly bewildered. They entered the briefing room where Vance, Jones, and the Prewett twins were already waiting.

"Alright Black?" One of the twins greeted. Sirius gave a cursory glance. Freckle on the left ear. Fabian, then.

"Alright, Fabe." He returned with a nod.

Moody stomped into the room. His face was set in a scowl that was complimented well by the scars set deep into his skin. There was a recent wound across his eyebrow, the skin still pink and tender.

"Right, people. You're in this room because you've scraped through enough that I trust you," barked Moody, shooing the security detail that had attempted to follow him into the room out of the door and slamming it behind them.

He turned back to his captive audience and drew his wand, causing everyone to flinch and read for their own wands. He chuckled, and then cast a number of warding spells that would prevent eavesdropping, "There's a leak in the ranks."

There was a beat of silence, and then the room erupted, some asking questions of Moody and others speaking to those beside them. Sirius felts a cold tendril of dread creep up his spine.

"SILENCE," roared Moody. "You'd think you are a bunch of children rather than highly trained witches and wizards."

The Prewett twins looks guilty.

"I think there is a rat in the ranks," Mood repeated, "and I'm here to tell you that if you find this rat, _eradicate them."_

Sirius wondered, not for the first time, if Moody had been hit in the face with too many curses. His paranoia was creeping upward every day.

"Sir, do you mean..." started McKinnon.

"Kill them. Maim them. Cut out their vocal chords. I don't care what you do. Neutralise the threat," the older man barked each word and McKinnon flinched.

He left the room and cancelled the warding. Sirius and McKinnon exchanged a wide-eyed glance.

Hermione stayed in bed until the sun was high in the sky, not quite willing to face the day or think about apologising to Oberon, Margaux, and Regulus. She had gotten out of bed to take a shower and rinse the dried salt off her face.

The warm water beating down from the ancient plumbing was a blessing and she nearly groaned in pleasure as she slowly worked the knots out of her neck and shoulders. Tied and tangled through many nights hunched over her desk frantically scribbling backstories and timelines and known locations, tensing up under the touch of people she didn't know very well, sleeping, or rather, lying stiff as a board unable to sleep, on an unfamiliar bed.

She sighed and let her forehead fall forward and rest on the tiles, the water inching down to her scalp and soaking her hair until it hung around her face as she let out a dry sob. One hitch of the breath, almost indistinguishable over the running water. No more after that.

Hermione washed and conditioned her hair, carefully ran her wand along her legs and under her armpits and between her legs to remove the hair, something she hadn't done for months. She dried her hair slowly, moisturised her body and air dried, allowing the ringlets to form neatly.

She returned to the room, swathed in a robe and completely relaxed, to find an owl waiting on her desk. She immediately felt her shoulders knot with tension again and sighed. It was nice while it lasted.

The wax seal crest was immediately identifiable as the Black crest. _Toujours Pur_ was clear along the ribbon across the body of the crest. The elegant scroll in navy ink was Regulus's, infuriatingly perfect in comparison to her chicken scratch handwriting.

 _Dear Hermione,_ the letter began,

 _Please grant me the honour of your company on an excursion this evening. Meet me at the entrance to Diagon Alley on the Muggle side at 4pm._

 _Yours, Regulus Black_

She scrawled a quick affirmative response and sent it off with the imposing eagle owl, background memories of similar bird bringing extravagant parcels of sweets to Draco Malfoy passing through her mind. Maybe eagle owls were solely bought by rich Pureblood families.

As a point of defiance more than anything else, she selected a mid-length backless top and pair of jeans in an effort to trumpet her Muggle-ness as loudly as possible. She was still a touch bitter about the conversation she had been excluded from at dinner the night before, unable to reconcile her modern independence with the seemingly stifling traditions of the wizarding uppercrust society.

The clock ticked over to 3.55pm and she took a moment to pull the covers straight on the bed and sweep her wand across the room to Vanish the dust and put knick-knacks away in their spots. Satisfied, she nodded and stowed her wand in the back of her jeans, and then pulled on a light cardigan.

Regulus was at the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron wearing a pair of black slacks and a collared shirt with the top button undone. The effect was meant to be casual, she was sure, but his hair was entirely too neat, and his posture was awkward and discomfited. He looked relieved as she approached.

"Hey," she greeted, pretending that the last time she saw him she hadn't shouted at him and then burst into tears.

"Hello," he said in return, looking like he was pretending the same thing she was.

"Where are we headed?"

"It's a surprise," said Regulus. "I would use the... is it _Underground?_ But apparently it will take quite a bit longer to do so, so I thought we could Apparate."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously, "Why would _you_ want to use the Underground?"

Regulus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Hermione. I am trying, trying _desperately,_ to overcome the prejudices of my upbringing. You alone are at complete odds with everything I've ever been taught about Mudb- Muggleborns. I haven't previously had the chance to socialise with anyone from that background, through stubbornness and prejudice of my own doing. _Please,_ for the love of all that is good and kind, help me overcome this without suspicion for my motives."

Hermione stared in unreserved surprise at his outburst. After a few moments of no response, Regulus prompted, "Do you trust me?"

There was no hesitation when Hermione replied, "Yes."

He offered his arm and she gripped it. They turned on their heel and disappeared with a crack.

* * *

They landed with a muted clap in a small park. The light was already beginning to wane, casting shadows over the small pond that formed the centrepiece of the park. Looking around, Hermione saw a slide and a swingset, one of the swings still swaying slightly. The effect was overall eerie, but the park was very familiar.

"What-" she began to ask, but Regulus pressed a finger to his lips.

"Trust me," he implored, offering his hand again. She took it, expecting to be Apparated again, but Regulus just entwined their fingers and pressed his palm against hers and began to walk.

His hand was warm and soft, gentle in a way that made her feel embarrassed of her callouses and raggedy cuticles. She suppressed a sigh.

Regulus led them through a very familiar neighbourhood and up to a very familiar two storey brick terrace house on Haverstock Hill. He let go of her hand and she missed the comfort immediately. He used the hand he had just freed to rap decisively on the door.

"I forgot," said Regulus, turning back to her and holding out his hand, "Please wear this on your left-hand ring finger."

She only had a moment to examine the pair of gold bands, one with a diamond in a claw setting, before she heard the sound of someone nearing the door. She hastily jammed the rings on her finger and shot Regulus a look of annoyance.

A moment later the door swung open and a young woman – maybe twenty eight – with coffee coloured skin and dark brown curls in a hasty bun atop her head blinked hazel eyes owlishly from behind a pair of large round spectacles.

"Hello," she said.

"Hi, Jean?" asked Regulus. Jean nodded. "I called ahead, Richard is expecting us."

White teeth interrupted the smooth expanse of her skin in a wide smile that Regulus had seen Hermione echo a number of times, "Of course! Come in, I'll make a cuppa. Richard isn't far off, he's due back any moment now."

They entered and Hermione slipped off her shoes without thought. Regulus imitated this with some discomfort.

"You'll just have to be quiet," said Jean in a low voice, leading them to a round table in the sunroom next to the kitchen. "I've got a-"

The sentence was interrupted by squall, and then the source of the noise seemed to gain momentum and began shrieking with reckless abandon.

"Sorry," said Jean with a wince, "she's not being a great sleeper... I'll be back shortly. Feel free to make yourself a cup of tea."

She disappeared to where Hermione knew the hallway and stairs were. She had been gone for a moment when Hermione spun around to face Regulus and hiss, "What are you _doing?"_

"I thought it might help," he said, staring determinedly at his own feet.

" _Help?"_ she whispered furiously. " _Help?!_ I could cause a paradoxical timeline and kill us all."

"No, you won't," he said irritably. "House elf magic allows for alternate timelines without repercussions."

"What?" she gaped at him, and then shoved his arm. "You didn't think to tell me that?"

"I _assumed_ you already knew, given that you were the one who came up with the theory-"

"You obviously knew it was just a _theory_ so why wouldn't you-"

They both fell silent when they heard footsteps on the stairs again. Jean re-entered the kitchen shushing a tiny screaming infant with a heavy fuzz of curly hair already.

"Sorry, she's not quite got the hang of napping. Or eating. Or being calm or civilised." said Jean ruefully.

" _Hasn't changed,"_ muttered Regulus under his breath, and then, " _Ow."_ as Hermione ground her heel into his foot. Jean didn't appear to have heard him, caught up in her newborn.

Regulus cleared his throat, "Hmm. Anyway, my name is Regulus, and this is my wife, Hermione."

Jean's eyes met hers with an open-mouthed look of surprise, "Hermione? That's this one's name."

"That's..." Hermione trailed off, unable to think of something to say.

"Well, we thought we were being unique," lamented Jean.

Hermione found herself suddenly choking with emotion, "I've never met another Hermione."

"So, you two are married? You look so young."

Regulus sputtered a bit, "Well, when you know, you know. You know?"

Hermione knew. Probably. She suppressed a snort.

Jean, for some reason, seemed to know exactly what he was saying. Her eyes softened and she nodded.

There was the sound of keys in the door and then a deep voice boomed, "Honey, I'm home!"

Richard Granger entered the room with a flourish, neatly dressed in beige slacks and a shirt and tie with a knitted jumper to ward off the cold. His cinnamon coloured eyes and tightly wound hair were reminiscent of Hermione to a T.

He waltzed over to his wife and kissed her on the nose, and then gingerly picked up his tiny daughter and buried his nose in her hair, breathing deeply. The baby arched her back and seemed to smile, though Hermione knew that it was just a reflex at not-yet-a-month-old.

Regulus noted that baby-Hermione still had blue eyes.

"Richard, this is Regulus and Hermione," Jean introduced them. "Isn't that a coincidence?"

Richard handed baby-Hermione back to Jean and straightened, holding his hand out for Regulus to shake.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Regulus formally. "And my wife, Hermione."

Hermione also shook her father's hand, resisting the urge to fling her arms around his neck and cry.

"Oh yes, Obie said something about visitors."

"I'm meeting Delia Higgins for dinner," Jean said, kissing her husband on the cheek. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Are you taking the baby?"

"Mhmm, Delia is bringing Jayne too. Poor thing has colic," Jean said sympathetically.

When the front door closed, Richard turned back to them with a twinkle in his eye, "Hermione, you're a spitting image of Jean when I first met her."

"Excuse me?" said Hermione after a moment of silence. "I'm not sure-"

"Obie tries to clever about it all, but I'm well aware of the existence of magic," said Richard, smiling.

Hermione felt her eyes watering and cursed her inopportune tear ducts, "And the magic of flossing."

Richard laughed, "Alright, definitely my daughter."

"Sir, I can't exactly explain-" started Regulus but Richard shook his head.

"Nor do I expect you to. Obie gave me the impression you are undertaking a monumental task that is equal parts dangerous and stupid."

Hermione sighed, "I suppose that's not an inaccurate summation of the mission, no."

Richard smiled sadly, "If you really are my daughter – and I'm inclined to believe you are, poppet – then I am immensely proud of every single thing you're doing and have done and are yet to do. I am not looking forward to losing you one day to the wizarding world, but I am very proud all the same."

Hermione's vision swam with tears, "Daddy..." and she was five years old, crying on his shoulder because Francis Colbert had made fun of her teeth, nine and beaming with pride as she was presented with an award for her school work, eleven and waving as she walked through the barrier and onto the platform for the first time. "Thank you. I... I need to go."

She was not proud of the second instance of bursting into tears and fleeing, but the alternative was standing there in front of her father – her _real_ father – bawling her eyes out, and as far as she was concerned that was not an option at all.

So, she ran, and as the door slammed behind her, Regulus rose to follow. Richard put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"You have my absolute blessing if you promise you'll look after her," said the older man seriously.

Regulus nodded, "I promise I will. I have to go find her, sir."

Richard nodded and released his shoulder.

He found her on one of the park benches, sobbing as though her heart was utterly broken. Regulus felt immediately guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking a seat beside her. "I only wanted to help."

"I'm grateful," she said quietly with a sniffle. "Sorry for running out."

He didn't say anything, just held out his arms in invitation. She let out another dry sob and then threw herself into his arms, her hands encircling his waist.

She burrowed her face into his chest and breathed deeply, smelling the musk and bergamot that she knew was a cologne but rather imagined that he was actually born smelling... rich. He kissed the top of her head and held her as she allowed herself to cry for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Thank you," she said after a while. "I didn't say it, but I meant to. Thank you. I loved seeing my parents again."

"You're more than welcome," he replied.

"I had to Obliviate them before we went on the run," she confessed in a hurry, each word tripping on the one ahead of it. "I was afraid the Death Eaters would find them and kill them or torture them. To try and find me. Everyone knew I was with Harry."

Regulus stayed silent, sensing she didn't need anything said. She just needed him to listen.

"So I erased my existence from their minds. I removed myself from pictures and made the house impersonal with a spare room instead of my bedroom, and then had them lock everything up and move to Australia under different names."

Regulus tightened his arms around her. They sat there for a couple more minutes, watching the sun give way to dusk and the last of the parents with their young children filter out of the park.

"How about dinner?" he suggested, hearing her stomach growl.

Hermione looked sheepish, "Sounds good. And a drink, or seven. I need one."

Regulus thought back over the last couple of days and had to agree.

"Do you know anywhere around here?" he asked. "Only I... well, I don't know the area."

She grinned, "I know a pub!"

* * *

"Pint of Guinness please mate," said Sirius, and then turned to Remus, "and one of whatever he wants."

"Cider, thanks," said Remus. "Sir, I can pay for my own drinks."

Sirius waved away the complaint, "I told you, my shout. I need it after today, Jesus, Mary and Godric fucking Gryffindor."

Remus laughed at the odd merging of phrases and took the drink that the barman offered. Sirius glanced down the bar to catch the eyes of the pretty blonde girl swirling a straw in her Cosmo.

"Isn't that your brother?" asked Remus, sounding thoroughly unsure of himself.

Sirius laughed harshly, turning around to look, "Are you sure your drink hasn't been spiked? Reg wouldn't be caught dead in the Mug-"

The words died on his lips. It appeared that it _was_ his brother, in Muggle clothing, accompanied by a curly headed girl in jeans and a cardigan. In a _very_ Muggle neighbourhood, in a _very_ Muggle pub. Sirius's jaw dropped as the pair took a seat in a booth, opposite sides, and began talking in a low voice as the host handed them menus, no doubt telling them they could order at the bar.

Regulus looked... uncomfortable. Not disgusted, as Sirius would expect, but ill-at-ease and unused to his surroundings. The curly-headed girl (witch, he noted, seeing the wand in her back pocket) looked much more at home, smiling genuinely at the host.

Before Remus could say ' _Sirius, I don't think that's a good idea',_ Sirius was marching up to the booth entirely intent on asking Reg what the _fuck_ he was doing in Hampstead dressed as a Muggle. The witch glanced up and caught his eye as he arrived, frozen with an expression of consternation on her face.

"Sirius?" she said, and then winced. Sirius narrowed his eyes. He was almost certain he'd never met the witch, which left a couple of options as to how she knew his name.

His family had mentioned him (unlikely), he'd slept with her while drunk (he didn't recall a morning after with a tiny bronze Afro-chic), she attended Hogwarts (looked to be his age, he didn't remember her from his year), or some other obscure meeting that he didn't recall (also unlikely, she was very pretty and Sirius remembered a pretty face).

In the couple of moments it had taken him to make this assessment, Regulus had looked up to meet his gaze as well. Both brothers, up close for the first time since Sirius had left home at sixteen, looked like rabbits caught in the light of a _Lumos._ Sirius's jaw hung open slightly and Regulus wasn't faring much better.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?" said Remus, breaking the tense silence.

Hermione snorted, "Well, I was hoping for a quiet drink, but that's _clearly_ not going to happen."

* * *

 **Authors note: I had such an enormous response to my last chapter (And my authors note! I appreciate all the support!), and I just want to say I love you guys SO MUCH. The reason I write, apart from personal enjoyment, is that I have people who follow and favourite and read and comment on everything I post, and I'm super grateful for every single one of you.**

 **A couple of notes to reviewers:**

 **ThatGreekLady -** _yup, I agree that Reg wouldn't just get over his prejudice. You'll hopefully see the breakdown of his beliefs in a believable timeline. Keep reading to see!_

 **FoxesRun -** _I know it's only a tiny taste of the Marauders, but next chapter will be all about Rem and Sir, so stay tuned!_

 **To leonix2009, Smithback, The Black Banshee, Kiaa Ethel and all my other regular reviewers, I read your comments out loud to my husband and get excited about every new comment. Thanks!**

 **And Happy New Years to everyone! I've started writing my next fic to combat writer's block which will be a Tom/Dra/mione AU (inconclusive pairing, you'll have to read to find out). i won't be posting it until I've finished this fic and at least one of my others, but keep an eye out.**

 **Thanks again, love and kisses,**

 **~ Maeve**


	9. 9 - Envy

**11 October 1979**

 **9\. Envy**

* * *

 _dare you to say a name—_  
 _chant it, darling—chant it—_  
 _feel every syllable melt_  
 _in the caverns of your_  
 _throat and that little_  
 _loving heart of yours—_  
 _and shall you see the_  
 _gods and goddesses_  
 _bless me with the blaze._

 _(see these eyes, what did_  
 _you find? oh no, how dare_  
 _i forgot that you are blind.)_

\- silent green by cursedreveries

* * *

Hermione could feel a migraine coming on, and its name was Sirius Black. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed, then moved over on the bench so there was room beside her.

"Sit," she ordered. Sirius did so, seemingly without thought. Remus followed moments later, taking a seat next to Regulus.

"You're the Dagworth-Granger witch. What-" started Sirius, and then stopped when Hermione rolled her eyes and shushed him.

"Whatever you're about to ask me can wait until I've had a hot meal and _at least_ two shots of tequila."

Sirius looked like he'd been struck over the head with a cast iron pan, and then a smiled slipped across his face and he chortled, "My kind of girl."

Regulus shot him a sharp look across the booth. Sirius didn't pay it mind, but Remus watched with interest.

Hermione snapped the menu shut and squeezed past Sirius, flouncing off to the bar to order. Sirius' gaze lingered on her behind, swaying in jeans, for a moment and then snapped his eyes back to Regulus who glared at him.

"Reg-" he started again.

"No, absolutely not," said Regulus with a sneer. "I owe you nothing."

"I think you owe me an explanation as to why you're in fucking Hampstead. In case you hadn't noticed, it's very _Muggle_ around here."

Regulus rolled his eyes, "Sorry, didn't realise you were the sole guardian of all places Muggle in London."

"That's not the point and you know it," hissed Sirius furiously.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, and then saw Hermione on her way back, "Time to stop talking Sir. You don't want to get on her bad side."

Hermione came with a small tray balanced on her hand, four shot glasses and a pile of lime slices on it. She put this on the table in front of the three men.

She then shrugged off her cardigan, tossing it over Sirius' head onto the bench, revealing the stomach-baring backless top she had worn in a moment of Muggle-pride-madness. Regulus' eyes widened, immediately flicking to examine the scar across her torso, puckering and stretching towards the sky before it disappeared under her clothing, shadowed by the hint of breast sitting just above the hem.

He swallowed heavily.

"Salt," she said, holding out her hand. Regulus looked confused but Remus grinned immediately and reached past the younger man to grab the salt shaker, handing it to the curly-haired witch.

She dragged the tip of her pink tongue across the back of her hand. Regulus watched, mesmerised, as it left a trail of shining wetness, shifting uncomfortably in his seat to suppress his body's reaction to the sight. She then shook the salt shaker over it, grains of salt catching and sticking to the saliva.

She then looked up, grinned triumphantly and held out the salt shaker, "Who's next?"

Sirius let out a whoop, apparently having forgotten the source of antagonism sitting across from him, or the fact that they had no idea who she was at the prospect of shots with a pretty girl, "Body shots?"

"You wish," she scoffed. Regulus caught her eye and she smiled.

Sirius shrugged off the rejection and licked the back of his hand and applied salt in quick succession. Remus did the same and then passed the shaker to Reg, who tentatively copied the movement.

"Lick the salt, shot the tequila, then suck on the lime," she instructed Reg. Then she demonstrated. Tongue lathed the salt, then she tipped back the shot glass and gulped, and then she grimaced and grabbed a slice of lime, putting it between her teeth and sucking. A drop of liquid hung tantalisingly on her lip for a moment before the tip of her tongue darted out and cleaned it.

Then she slammed the shot glass on the table triumphantly, sending a challenging look at Sirius. Sirius raised the glass to her and mimicked her movements, grinning with lime between his teeth. Remus also did the shot, grimacing at the taste.

Regulus hesitantly licked the salt and tossed the glass back to pour it down his throat. Immediately his throat burned, and his eyes watered at the acrid taste.

"Merlin and Morgana," he gasped out. "What the _fuck_ is in that?"

"Have the lime," Hermione leaned over the table to place the lime between his lips. He teased the juice from the flesh into his mouth and the aftertaste was neutralised.

"That was bloody awful," he said. Hermione indicated for Sirius to scoot over so she could sit.

"Agreed," she said. "But I feel much better for it."

Regulus noted the warm feeling spreading in his chest, sweeping away the melancholy of the afternoon, "Huh. So do I."

Hermione then turned to Sirius, who opened his mouth to ask another question, and punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow!" he yelped, rubbing his shoulder. "What was that for?"

"I've been wanting to do that for three years, you overdramatic son of a bitch."

"What- Do I know you?"

Regulus started sniggering, and Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," said Regulus, "just realising how appropriate the term _son of a bitch_ is."

Remus snorted.

"Sorry, this is coming from Mummy's perfect little Pureblood heir?" retorted Sirius, privately wondering if he was having a fever dream.

"It's out of politeness that I don't exclusively refer to the pair of you as such," retaliated Hermione, ignoring Sirius' question. Regulus grinned at her, eyes softening.

 _Yep,_ thought Sirius, _definitely a fever dream._

Out loud he said, "Can someone please explain what is going on?"

Hermione sighed, "Yes. Alright. That's a fair request. But you've got to swear on your magic that you won't let any of this trickle back to Dumbledore."

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look that conveyed an entire conversation. They both seemed to agree, turning back to Hermione and nodding their consent.

Hermione cast a look around the pub and then cast a subtle _Muffliato_ and a Muggle repelling charm on the booth.

She turned to Reg, "Please bind us."

She clasped hands with both of the men, and they intoned, "By my magic I am bound. _Me vinctum."_

A thin line of red magic snaked over their clasped hands and sparked briefly before subsiding. The effects of breaking an oath on your magic was not as dire as that of an Unbreakable Vow, but it was unpleasant all the same.

"Right," said Hermione, getting down to business. "I'm from the year 1998, and I'm assisting Reg with bringing down Voldemort. No, Sirius, no questions, let me finish."

The elder Black closed his mouth.

"Dumbledore made a lot of mistakes in my original timeline, and it resulted in a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering. I might not-" she paused for a moment to breathe deeply, _in through the mouth out through the nose,_ and swallow the lump in her throat, "I might not be able to get back to my time. Even if I could, it might not be recognisable. If all goes to plan, I probably don't have a place in 1998. Not one with my friends, anyway."

She swallowed the lump in her throat again, and then added fiercely, "We'll change things though. We _will."_

There was silence. The seconds ticked by and the silence got heavier, before Sirius tore through the tension, "You're kidding, right? You've got to be kidding. There's no way..." he laughed nervously, "I mean, there's just no way-"

Remus, who had been observing more than actually participating in conversation up to that point, suddenly looked very wary, "That's all very farfetched. How do we know you're not trying to lead us into a trap?"

"Oh yes, we followed you here to Hampstead and bought a round of drinks _just_ to-" Regulus started to snap, but Hermione cut him off with a warning glance.

"Lily is pregnant," she said, without preamble. "It's a boy, his name will be Harry. Probably don't repeat that though, she likely doesn't know she's pregnant yet."

"How-"

"Remus is a werewolf," she continued over the top of Sirius' questions. "Though really, it's a bloody wonder the entire Hogwarts doesn't know, you are _not_ an expert at subtlety Sirius. You're a black dog animagus, James is a stag, Peter is a rat. James has an Invisibility Cloak and you all created the Marauder's Map – brilliant Charm work, by the way. Very impressive."

Remus' face had drained of colour at her words, and both the Black brothers were gaping at her.

"You never bloody told me that," muttered Reg, nearly sulking.

"Wasn't relevant," she shrugged. "Well, do you believe me?"

"How?" asked Lupin, still pale with fear. "How on _earth_ do you know all of that?"

"Because I read it in your best-selling autobiography Remus, what do you think?" she said irritably. "I knew you in my original timeline."

"How are you _here?"_ asked Sirius.

She exchanged a glance with Regulus, and then spoke carefully, "In my original timeline, Reg died in September 1979."

"I-" Sirius started.

"The- well, Voldemort," interrupted Regulus, "made Horcruxes."

"Horcru _xes?!"_ squeaked Sirius. " _Horcruxes,_ plural? More than one?"

"Yes, seven," said Hermione, grimly. Sirius went green.

"What the bloody hell is a Horcrux?" asked Remus, eyeing his friend with concern.

"Dark, dark magic Rem," said Sirius. "Mum gave me a right hiding when she found out I'd pilfered a book on it, and you know how mad she is about the merits of Dark Magic."

"Yes, but what-"

"You rip your soul up, save a piece in an object. Splitting your soul... that takes murder," replied Sirius, still sickened. "You can't die while it still exists."

"Shit," said Remus.

"Yeah, shit. What does it have to do with Reg, though?" He directed his question at Hermione, but Regulus answered.

"I liberated one from the custody of the Dark Lord," he shuddered. "And almost drowned, curtesy of his army of Inferi."

Sirius nearly stopped breathing, "How the fuck did you get out of that one?"

Reg and Hermione exchanged another glance, similar to the one he and Rem had exchanged earlier, an entire conversation run over a quirk of the eyebrow. They seemed to come to a conclusion and Reg answered, "House elf magic. We think. Hermione was hit with a combination of spells and house elf magic that brought her to the point in time where I died. When she arrived, she burned the whole army to ash and rescued me."

Sirius eyed the witch, five foot nothing and slim enough that she looked like she would break in the wind, doubtfully.

"I'm perfectly capable, stop giving me that look," she snapped, and Remus laughed, breaking the tension for a moment.

"She strikes me as the type of witch you don't want to be on the wrong side of," Remus whispered loudly across the table. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Lily Evans taught me not to underestimate tiny witches," said Sirius, quirking his lips.

Hermione rolled her eyes again and muttered, "You never bloody change."

There was a beat of silence.

"So, does your mother routinely torture witches with dancing lessons?" asked Hermione conversationally, cancelling the spells.

All three men snorted in perfect unison.

Hermione stood from the table.

"I'm getting another drink. Keep up," she said waspishly, then swung her curls over one golden shoulder curved her lips and winked flirtatiously at Reg, who flushed immediately, suddenly remembering how little she was wearing.

She walked back to the bar, and they all looked at each other for a moment before lurching to their feet to follow her.

"Sirius is shouting," said Reg.

"You're the one who still has access to the family vault, you git," grumbled Sirius. Remus shook his head in amazement as the brothers seemed to fall back into an easy friendship after years of antagonization.

"Round of tequila please," said Sirius, leaning over Hermione's shoulder and letting his breath tickle her cheek. "One, two, three, four."

The bartender put a salt shaker and a plastic tub of lime slices on the bar and began pouring the alcohol. Regulus imitated his earlier learnings and swigged it back, making a face, "Fuck, that's still grim."

Hermione didn't seem to think so, ordering another immediately. She was speaking to Sirius up the bar, low voices and her hand resting on his elbow.

Remus appeared beside him with a tankard in each hand, "Got you a drink. I'm fairly sure this is a really elaborate dream, but Sirius is paying, so..."

He trailed off and Regulus snorted, "Yes it seems that way a lot with Hermione around."

Regulus let his gaze linger on her profile, animated and chatty with Sirius.

"Your girl?" asked Remus.

"No," said Regulus shortly. "Just pretending for my mother, for the sake of the mission."

Remus looked like he very much didn't believe him, "You're just going to let her go, then?"

"I don't have a bloody choice, she doesn't belong here. When she goes back to her time, even if I see her again, I'll be nearly two decades her senior," he said bitterly.

Remus whistled, "Yeah that's rough."

"And besides, she seems to have hit it off with Sirius," Regulus glowered at the pair, watching Sirius lean in to speak to her, charming smile fixed in place, and tuck a curl behind her ear.

Remus looked over and watched Hermione swat Sirius' hand away, rolling her eyes, and laughed, "What? She's avoiding all his moves."

* * *

Sirius was indeed trying all his moves, to no avail. Hermione was just laughing at him, "I know you think you're smooth Sirius Black, but in my time you're an old man."

He smirked, "I believe you'll find Black men age like fine wine."

He brought a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, a move that no doubt would have someone less invested in the future of the wizarding world swoon. She just laughed and slapped his hand away, "Not interested, Black."

He sulked, "You could at least give me a chance."

"Not interested in becoming a notch in your bedpost," she said. "Least of all because it's something I wouldn't want to explain to Ha-" She stopped, reigning in her words before they could escape, "Never mind."

The mood shifted, and Sirius solved it the only way he knew how – applying liberal amounts of alcohol and hoping the awkwardness resolved itself.

By the time they were leaving, their heads were swimming pleasantly, the day's woes forgotten in the haze. She laughed loudly in the street at nothing in particular, spinning in the cold night air with her arms spread wide.

Regulus tried not to stare at the twin peaks straining against her thin top. Sirius had no such reservations until Remus hit him over the head.

"We shouldn't be seen together," said Hermione, reluctantly dropping her arms. "It will jeopardise everything."

She then flung her arms around Remus, briefly, and then around Sirius. Regulus watched through the fog of alcohol as his brother's hands lingered on her bare waist.

"Let's go," she skipped back over to him, grabbed his hands and threw her head back and laughed again, drunken giggles of pure joy.

* * *

They Apparated into an alley just off Tottenham Court Road and walked to the Leaky, Regulus silent and Hermione humming under her breath.

They got to her room without preamble and she sighed happily as she toed off her shoes and sat on the bed, "Certainly beats a night of being auctioned off like cattle."

He was suddenly annoyed, "You know, for someone who preaches so much about acceptance, you don't have a whole lot of acceptance for our traditions."

She laughed derisively, "That's because they're all utterly barbaric-"

"All of them? Every single one?" he snapped. "You wouldn't fucking know, would you? You've never actually _asked_ about our traditions-"

"I don't need to ask about all of them, you auction off women like they're belongings-"

" _Stop,"_ he roared, " _stop blaming me for the sins of an entire society."_

Her face puckered, "I'm not-"

"What would you call it then? Gentle criticism? Killing me with kindness? I'm trying to overcome everything I've ever been taught and it's too damn hard for you to _ask_ why we learn how to dance, or what a marriage contract involves. It's too damn hard for you to maybe consider that the wizarding world is an entirely separate entity to the Muggle one-"

"Maybe the wizarding world needs to come into the twentieth century then-"

"Would you move to another country and criticise every single thing they did differently to Britain?"

Her face dropped, "No, I-"

"Well that's what it's like. That's why Voldemort has followers, because they see people coming in from another culture and not even paying mind as to _why_ it's different."

She slumped, the fight going out of her, "I... I'd never thought of it that way."

"I know," he snapped. "I know."

They lapsed into silence, and Regulus thought back on the evening, his ears buzzing, and vision still fogged with anger, "What exactly was Sirius to you?"

She smiled sadly, "A dear friend."

"Just friends?" the words spilled out with no bidding.

She stared for a moment, and then burst into laughter, "Jesus Reg, yes, just friends. I was fourteen when I met him, he was in his thirties."

"You seemed awfully cosy," he said, sulkily. "Don't get distracted from the mission just for a shag."

"Are you kidding me?" She shrieked, her hair was beginning to frizz as she got angrier. "Do you take me for... for some kind of _trollop_?"

"I-"

"I'm hardly going to endanger the mission, I'm two decades in the past with no way to get back-"

"Maybe if you hadn't been all over my brother all night, I wouldn't be so concerned-"

"Oh you don't need to worry about your brother," she reared back and slapped him. His ears rang, stars bursting in his vision. Her face was flushed with fury, "I'll fucking show you _distracted."_

He looked at her blankly for a moment before she grabbed him by the collar. For a split second he thought she might headbutt him, but then all thoughts fled as she dragged his face down to hers and kissed him roughly.

He was frozen in shock for a juncture, and then surged forward to seize her face in his hands as to not let the moment, not let _her_ , escape from him. The kiss was bruising, each trying to overcome the other fuelled by the righteous indignation from their earlier argument, tongues and teeth battling for dominance, but it quickly morphed into something soft and tender.

She smelled of cinnamon and tasted of tequila and lime, her breath mingling with his in an intoxicating whirl of smell and taste and emotion. He kissed down her neck and she threw her head back with a gasp to allow him access, her breath coming out in quick pants; each kiss that made contact was a whisper of _mine, mine, mine,_ possessive and heady.

She backed away for a moment, pulling a groan from his lips as the contact was broken, but she used his distraction to push him, _back, back_ till the curve of his knees hit the bed and he was forced to sit. She bore down on him, fire and fury and perfection and her lips were on him, punishing his neck for the attentions he'd paid hers. But _Gods_ if it didn't feel incredible when she rolled her teeth and tongue over the delicate skin, and the chant _yours, yours, yours,_ was whispered back with equal fervour.

And then she was hanging over him, her breath a bare hint across his. She suddenly looked unsure.

"I've never... this is..."

"Me either," he assured her, swallowing his own nerves to soothe her. "I... I've kissed girls before but nothing... nothing more."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh Gods yes," he pulled her to him, embracing her and it was heat and passion and she was unbuttoning his shirt and kissing his chest and he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel. He tentatively inched her tiny top over her head, leaving her in only her jeans.

Her breasts were small, bronzed as the rest of her and tear shaped, the frigid air making each nipple stand to attention. She was flushed, embarrassed or aroused he wasn't sure, and he realised he'd been staring open mouthed at her naked torso for a full thirty seconds.

His hand drifted to her hip to pull her close again, thumb brushing over her skin. He gave in to the mad urge to lick her honeyed skin and she shuddered beneath him.

They took their time, divesting each other of clothing and relishing in each touch with a sigh, and they moved together, unsure and awkward but somehow fitting together like puzzle pieces that had transcended Time herself to collide headlong into each other at inopportune moments.

Neither were experienced, and the first time was awkward, painful, and they didn't last long before they were crying out, Regulus unable to help himself from cresting the wave. They collapsed into a sweaty heap, breathing hard and unable to wipe the smile of their faces.

"You didn't-" Reg started, and Hermione shook her head.

"I imagine it's something that doesn't happen the first time much," she said, closing her eyes and inching closer to him, settling her cheek on his bare chest. "We'll learn."

He closed his eyes too, equal parts exhausted and still-too-drunk, slinging an arm across her waist and holding her close.

They drifted off to sleep still smiling.

* * *

 **Authors Note: PHEW. I know this chapter is early but I couldn't wait to post it because I'm an impatient ass. I had SO MUCH trouble with the sex scene because I don't want this to be smut but I want the intimacy in there between them, because it's an important aspect.**

 **Given we know so little about Hermione's sexuality in the canon novels, I've taken some liberties with her allowing herself to get drunk and fall into bed with someone - she thinks she's probably going to die, it's something she hasn't experienced before and the person she thought she loved (Ron) a) hasn't been born yet and b) betrayed her so badly and they hadn't had time to reconcile properly before Hermione ended up in the past. Also she's pretty much exclusively spending time with Regulus right now, so that intensifies any existing feelings, and Hermione is just plain curious and wants to know what it's like.**

 **As for the drinking, well, she's 19. She had an overly emotional day and then ran into Sirius and Remus, something she sort of knew had to happen but had no time to prepare for and that's enough to drive anyone to drink. Honestly, she just deserves a night to have fun.**

 **Shout out to a guest reviewer called "Reader" who commented on chapter 7 to say "they just need to run into Sirius in a pub", because that's exactly what I had planned!**

 **Also I know the chapter is a little shorter than usual but I really thought that was the place the chapter naturally ended. Hopefully the content makes up for it.**

 **Let me know what you think - PLEASE READ AND REVIEW.**

 **~ Maeve**


	10. 10 - Enamoured

**-peeks out from behind a barricaded door and throws a chapter at you before running away-**

* * *

 **12 October 1979**

 **10\. Enamoured**

* * *

 _I lay enamoured,_  
 _As a prince revelling_  
 _'Til death do us part._

 _\- Her Morning Proposal by John Velasco_

* * *

Hermione woke to sunlight in her eyes and a pounding in her head. Her mouth was gritty and tasted like she had breathed through her mouth the entire night.

She was also alone in bed, a fact that only struck her as significant after a few moments. She then shot up, the sheet and duvet falling around her still-naked body. She scanned the room and relaxed minutely when she spotted Regulus, fully dressed and sitting in an armchair by the hearth.

"Reg?" she said, not bothering to cover herself. Reg started at the sound, and then stood and walked back over to her.

"Good morning," he said stiffly. Hermione's heart sank at his tone.

"Reg, I-"

"Hermione, I have to apologise," he had averted his gaze from her naked form. "I took advantage of your drunken state and it was unfair and ungentlemanly of me. I sincerely apologise for my actions and hope you will forgive me, but I will completely understand if you are unable to do so."

"Pardon?" asked Hermione, blinking.

"I profusely apologi-"

"No, I got that part," she said, waving her hand. "Did you not enjoy yourself?"

Regulus coloured deeply, still refusing to look at her, "No, I did-"

"Well so did I. So why are you apologising?"

"I took advantage-"

She scoffed, "You were as drunk as I was, and besides, I make my own choices. Stop being an idiot."

"But I-"

She grabbed him by the collar, echoing the previous night's actions, and forced him to look her in the eye, "Reg. Stop. I wanted it to happen."

Grey eyes met ochre ones, and then hers fluttered closed and she tipped her mouth back and upwards to press it against Regulus's.

Missing the desperation and drunkenness of the night before, the kiss was soft and tentative, a question asked and duly answered, _yes, yes, a thousand times yes._ It was brief, partly because Hermione was all too aware of the sour taste in her own mouth and partly because it stole her breath so thoroughly that she was dizzy within moments.

When they pulled back, Regulus looked as dazed as she felt, "Is this real? Are we- I mean, us?"

"I'd hardly sleep with somebody just for a mission," she said crossly. "No matter how infuriatingly perfect your hair is."

He laughed, a relieved bubble of joy springing forth from the well in his chest. He had been truly worried he had ruined it all, rushed into a physical union borne of alcohol and wrought emotions. He liked her, truly liked her. Liked that she challenged his views and argued and was altogether free and giving with her love and her anger and her happiness.

Her stubbornness infuriated him in a way that he'd never felt before, because he wanted her to see the important parts of his culture and want to be a part of it with him. It was the first time he had to prove why things were the way they were was not only _right_ and _just,_ but also _important._

Merlin. She'd crept under his skin and settled firmly in his heart, without him noticing. It had been less than a month since she had arrived, a drop in the bucket of the decades they might have ahead, a whirlwind courtship of the Mistress of Time. He thanked his lucky stars, silently, that Fate had seen fit to drop her into his lap and challenge everything he'd ever known.

Hermione slid out of the bed, somehow completely comfortable with her naked state; his eyes trailed unconsciously down her body as she padded over to the wardrobe to get dressed for their day.

"We should publicly enter a courtship," he said, tearing his gaze away. "I can take you down to the vault then, and we could get the cup."

"Okay," she agreed easily, hooking her brassiere and pulling the straps up her arms. "We should see Oberon's goblin friend today then."

He nodded, "I'll owl him to organise it. We should also see my mother."

Hermione made a face, still facing away from Regulus. She didn't want to admit it, but she was nearly _fond_ of the Black matriarch. She was a horrible bigot and a terrible mother, but she really was doing her best to help Hermione acclimatise to the drastically different environment.

 _She'd immediately and viciously retract the assistance if she knew what you were,_ whispered a traitorous voice that sounded suspiciously like Draco fucking Malfoy. She shook her head to dislodge the voice and pulled up her underwear and then the absurdly well-fitting robes that Regulus had magically tailored the day they first went to Grimmauld.

They had breakfast while they waited for the owl to wing its way to the goblin with a note attached, begging for an audience. Along with a casual name drop, hopefully it would be enough to earn them afternoon tea.

Hermione let out a satisfied groan as the hangover brew she had bought from a potions stall in the Alley took effect. The thudding in her head subsided immediately and the sunshine didn't seem quite so burningly aggressive.

"Are you okay?" asked Regulus. Annoyingly, he didn't seem to have been affected by the excess of alcohol they had both consumed.

"I'm fine now," she said, settling in to take a sip of her tea. "I had a headache, but the brew fixed me up."

They lapsed into silence. Hermione wondered if she hadn't gone and ruined it after all; the ease in their friendship seemed to have evaporated.

Regulus was thinking similarly, cursing the existence of tequila and a sex drive. Falling into bed had not been in his plans, with _anyone,_ let alone a Muggleborn witch from the future. That it seemed to have interrupted the painstakingly assembled casual ease of their friendship was just another reason to regret his actions – not because he hadn't wanted to, because oh _Gods_ he had wanted her, but because he thought on some level that Hermione deserved far better than a quick roll in the metaphorical hay.

"Were you involved with Asta Warrington?" asked Hermione, grasping at straws for conversation. Regulus immediately flushed a vivid shade of red.

"No, but if I tell you why we know each other you must promise not to tell," he said, shooting a furtive look around the room. The other patrons were paying no attention to the young couple.

Hermione looked intrigued, "I promise. Who would I tell it to, anyway?"

Regulus leaned forward, ignoring the question, to say in a low voice, "I caught her and B- another witch in a compromising position in our seventh year."

"Oh," said Hermione, wide eyed. "Are... is... I mean, in the Muggle world it _happens,_ but it's not very... accepted. Is the Wizarding world-?"

Regulus understood the question being asked, "It's generally accepted, but Pureblood unions are usually for continuing the line over love, so..."

He trailed off and Hermione picked up the sentence, "So they marry someone to produce an heir but continue their relationship otherwise?"

"Exactly. Asta was Asta Burke in school, but she married Quintas Warrington in fifth year. She had a son... nearly two years ago now, I think?"

"Cassius Warrington," she said, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Do people _really_ get married at age 15?"

"Yes," Regulus made a face. "And if you're about to say it's barbaric, I agree with you on that one. Asta had Cassius at the start of our seventh year, and then passed him off to the house elves because she was determined to finish her schooling. That's not the norm, though."

"And she works now, right? At the Prophet? That doesn't seem to be the norm either."

"It's not. Wizards invest and earn, and witches make homes and raise children," he quoted, looking pained. "Asta went straight from school to working."

"Her poor baby," Hermione said, looking genuinely distressed. "I understand wanting to work, but to hand him off to the house elves..."

Regulus shrugged, "What's the alternative?"

"Daycare? Grandparents? A nanny?" Hermione listed with her fingers, Regulus increasingly confused.

"I... I don't think that's done, not in Pureblood circles. A nanny... they would want someone Pureblood for that, and no respectable Pureblood would be caught _nannying._ It would be as good as saying their husband can't support them."

Hermione looked physically pained at holding back her usual tirade against archaic Pureblood rules but hold back she did.

"I know it seems backwards," said Regulus, noticing. "And you're probably right."

The initial awkwardness seemed to have been overcome, and Hermione asked, "So is Asta still with... this other witch?"

Regulus nodded, "As far as I know, they're still together. Quintas is happy to turn a blind eye, since he has an heir now."

"That's..." she trailed off. _Nice_ didn't seem to be the right word.

She was saved the trouble of finding an appropriate adjective by Barman Tom, who shuffled over waving a scrap of parchment. The jagged script read _10.30am Moreton-in-Marsh. Do not be late._

She thanked Tom, and turned the parchment so Regulus could read it, "It's nearly ten fifteen already, we'd better go."

They waved to Tom on the way out. He would put the breakfast on their tab, which was settled by a direct payment Regulus had authorised from his private vaults. It made things simpler, even though Hermione hated the heavy feeling in her gut that accompanied the pang of insufficiency. She imagined it was rather how Ron had felt whenever Malfoy had needled at his family's financial status in their school years.

Regulus twined his hand in hers, and the heavy feeling was replaced with a swooping one, equal parts terrifying and joyous. They stepped into the shadow of an alley outside The Leaky Cauldron and apparated.

* * *

The town was charming, cobblestone streets and quaint houses with the bustle and hum of the townspeople somewhat muted due to it being mid-morning on a Friday.

"We weren't given an address," she said aloud, checking her watch.

"We don't need one," said Regulus. "You can feel the magic here. It shouldn't be hard to follow."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, incredulous, but stopped when she noticed a shimmer in the air. She dropped her senses back, letting go of her assumptions. The noise of the town faded into the background and she suddenly became aware of a feeling – not a physical feeling, not taste, nor touch, nor smell, but an instinctual knowledge. It was like her magic was a physical being who was reaching out to caress the tendrils of other, foreign magic.

Regulus, standing next to her, was like a shining beacon of warmth, very familiar. There were threads of other magic, less familiar but still decidedly human, and then a strong string leading east out of town that felt not quite animal, but not human either.

She opened her eyes again, "East, out of town?"

Regulus nodded, a smile gracing his face, "You hadn't felt magic before?"

They began to walk, and she shook her head. "I mean, I think I've felt it on a subconscious level, but I've never done it on purpose. Why isn't it taught at school?"

Regulus's face soured, "There's a cohort of people in the Wizengamot who think it is Dark Magic. I was taught it as a child, and it informs my magic."

She frowned, "That puts Muggleborns and half-bloods at an enormous disadvantage."

"Yes," he said. "It isn't Dark Magic, it is core magic. It is part of the fallacy that says Muggleborns are naturally weaker."

"Well, obviously that is rubbish," she huffed. He held his arm out in front of her to halt her.

"We're here."

They had arrived in front of a perfectly ordinary cottage, geraniums creeping just a little too much over the lip of their planters underneath the windows, the door resolutely closed to the world. Stubbornly normal, almost. It was unarguably the source of the not-quite-human magic, however, so they walked up to the door and she rapped on it with only a moment's hesitation.

The door flew inwards and stopped abruptly. A voice emerged from the shadows of the hall, and it sounded like someone pouring honey over a landslide of pebbles, "Come in and make it quick."

She glanced behind her, scanning the horizon that was empty of other people, hidden behind curtains or away at work or school, and then ducked her head to hide her face and shuffled inside. Regulus followed.

Gorehook Strongbeam was a retired banker of advancing age. You would not know it for looking at him, because as far as Hermione could tell, goblins looked roughly the same from age twenty to age three hundred; gnarled, green skin and tufts of hair, with unsettlingly long fingers and a vicious gleam in his eye.

"Good morning," she said, unable to think of anything else to say.

Regulus bowed easily, "Good morning. Thank you for seeing us. I am Re-"

"Don't tell me your name," said the goblin sharply. "Less to lie about if I don't know who's paying me a visit."

Regulus faltered for only a moment before nodding his assent.

"Follow me," Gorehook turned and walked deeper into the house, the layout improbable for the physical size of the cottage from the outside. He led them into a small room with a table and chairs in the centre. The walls were lined with shelves, piled with silver and gold metalwork, intricate and beautiful. Hermione's gaze lingered on a shelf of goblets, wrought iron and gold, inlaid with precious gems.

They sat at the table, facing the goblin. He examined them carefully and seemed to be satisfied with his assessment.

"Oberon is redeeming his favour," he said. "This must be big."

"It is," said Hermione, tentatively. "I wanted to know how much you know of the Founders of Hogwarts?"

He stared impassively for a moment, "My brethren had many fruitful partnerships and gifted them many pieces. These were never returned when they passed on."

Hermione looked deeply uncomfortable, "I know I cannot apologise on behalf of someone else, and that it is empty words without action."

"So don't apologise," he said.

"We need a replica of Hufflepuff's Cup made. It needs to hold up under..." she broke off before she specified Gringotts, "...under warding. Strong warding."

"Very well," agreed the goblin without preamble. "I will have it made in two days' time."

He stood to show them out and Regulus looked startled, "You have no questions for us? That's it?"

Gorehook grinned, his sharpened teeth glinting in the low light, "A favour is a favour, wizard. There is nothing to be gained from me knowing more."

"Aren't you curious?" he asked, confused.

"Not curious enough to risk the wrath of my kind if I have to lie to them," Gorehook responded easily. "I will contact you if I need any more information. Good day."

He had managed to herd them out of the room and through the hall in the time it took Reg to ask. The door swung open unbidden.

"Thank you," said Hermione, as she was shooed out the door.

"Yes, thank you," added Regulus, receiving the same treatment.

"No thanks necessary," the goblin told them cheerfully, and slammed the door in their face.

They exchanged a glance and Hermione snorted, "I really didn't think it would be that simple or quick."

"I've decided I don't even want to entertain the thought of _why_ Gorehook owes Oberon anything," muttered Regulus in response.

"You should probably go home," said Hermione, reaching for his hand before she could overthink it. It hovered next to his for a moment, another question asked and answered when he pushed his palm into hers and slotted his fingers in beside hers. He looked down and smiled and she felt her lips stretch across her teeth in response.

"Do I have to?" he murmured, tugging her closer with their joined hands. "I can think of much more enjoyable ways to spend my time."

Her heart stuttered and breath whistled out between her teeth, eyes shuttering closed and face lifted to meet his. His lips ghosted across her face and met hers and-

Then a loud bang interrupted them, and they leapt apart, suddenly and inexplicably pelted with geraniums. She let out a peal of laughter and began to run, Regulus hot on her heels.

"I guess Gorehook isn't a fan of PDA," Hermione couldn't help the giggle that escaped, shaking soil out of her hair. Regulus wondered how on earth it was that she liked _him._

"Will you come and see my parents then?" he asked, and Hermione made a face.

"I suppose. Your father is not very objectionable, at least."

"You have to have a personality to be objectionable," agreed Regulus. "We can tell them we'd like to court."

"And the contract?" said Hermione, tentatively. The unasked question hung in the air between them.

He sighed, "Hermione, I want to explain these magical contracts to you, but I need you to just listen until the end. No interruptions until you have all the information."

Hermione just nodded, a determined glint in her eye.

"Marriage contracts are put in place to protect both parties. They outline acceptable behaviour for the duration of marriage, fail-safes for infidelity, acceptable grounds for dissolution of the marriage, and for some particularly wealthy individuals, protects their wealth and assets in the case of messy divorces."

Hermione thought, _kind of like a pre-nup._

"They are magically binding contracts with very unpleasant results for those who try and break them. Courting contracts, which is what my mother has been haranguing you about for the past three weeks, are the precursor to a marriage contract and they're used to establish exclusivity and a timeline for the courtship. Most Sacred 28 courtships put a date on it, at which the couple – or more commonly, the parents – decide whether to part ways or move into marriage." Regulus could almost recite this by heart; a part of his lessons as a boy.

"Courting contracts are easier to dissolve, they only need the consent of one side of the couple. Oberon is more likely to seek an open-ended contract because you're a _modern witch,"_ he quirked his lips and nudged her, causing her to smile, "and also because if anything happens, if one of us is killed or you are able to return to your original timeline, he will be able to dissolve an open ended contract without magical consequence. Okay, I'm finished now."

Hermione chewed over it for a moment, "I am actually not as opposed to it as I thought I would be."

"That's because you've got all the facts now," said Regulus, rolling his eyes.

"It's perhaps a little more formal than I'm used to, but the marriage contract is similar to a Muggle contract called a pre-nuptial agreement. A couple more clauses, but very similar."

"I'm beginning to see that there are many things our society has in common with the Muggles," said Regulus drily. He didn't sound disgusted by the notion, merely amused.

* * *

They arrived in Islington shortly afterwards, and Grimmauld Place burst out between the two Muggle houses beside it, the Muggles inside the houses completely unaware. As happened last time, the door swung inwards unbidden, Kreacher skulking from the shadows.

"Good morning, Kreacher. Is Mother home?" asked Regulus, removing his scarf.

"Yes Mistress is being home," said Kreacher. "Kreacher will fetch Mistress."

Regulus lead the way into the drawing room, and they sat on the settee speaking in low voices about the remainder of the day. They quieted when they heard the telltale shuffle of Kreacher, and Walburga swept in, fixing an unconvincing smile on her face.

"Regulus, we missed you at dinner last night," she examined the pair, and Hermione was suddenly hyper-aware of every single hair out of place. She wondered if there was still soil from an errant geranium in her hair.

Regulus seemed unruffled, "My apologies, we stayed with Oberon last night. We want to enter into a courtship."

Walburga's eyes lit up, and she said without taking her eyes off the pair, "Kreacher, fetch Orion. Tell him we need to draw up a courting contract and have it sent to Oberon Dagworth-Granger."

"Yes Mistress," said Kreacher, bowing deeply and scuttling away.

"I would like to take Hermione down to the vaults," said Regulus.

"Oh!" exclaimed Walburga, "Oh of course you can! Growing up already. And you, Ms Dagworth-Granger, we can't wait to welcome you to the family."

Walburga's eyes looked suspiciously misty. Hermione quashed the traitorous feeling of fondness welling up in her chest with the memory of the shrieking portrait calling her a _filthy Mudblood whore._

Walburga began rapid-fire questioning Regulus. The hour passed by without Hermione's input at all, Regulus expertly steering the conversation away from her at every turn.

Orion interrupted the conversation with the only real human expression that Hermione had ever seen on the man. He was hardly what she would describe as animated, but he had an approximation of a smile on his face as he discussed contract terms with Walburga and Regulus.

"Not a dated contract, mother, Oberon would never accept it," said Regulus firmly.

"Nor would I," chimed in Hermione, resisting the urge to grin as Walburga swallowed the complaint she had been about to make. "I am in no hurry to be married, Madam Black."

Walburga let out a small sigh, "I know, I was hoping to have a little more time to teach you our ways, but youth is ever eager."

Hermione's mind flashed back to the night before, and her breath stuttered for a moment.

Regulus seemed to be remembering similarly; his cheeks where burning, and he refused to meet his mother's gaze.

"Well," said Walburga, with a clap, as though she hadn't just said something thoroughly embarrassing in front of the teenagers, "I will have Orion organise a meeting with your father to finalise the terms of the courting contract. Now, be off. I have guests for lunch and little interest in babysitting."

The dismissal was abrupt, but Walburga looked pleased. Hermione wondered if she would ever understand Purebloods.

 _No,_ she decided, _that's very unlikely._

They left, as instructed.

"Begonia asked if I wanted to meet this afternoon," mentioned Hermione. "We could go back to Diagon Alley."

Regulus agreed.

* * *

They were walking along the cobblestone streets with their hands entwined between them. The afternoon sun was warm, but not stiflingly so, and Hermione could almost forget that she was stuck 20 years in the past with the looming threat of a psychopath.

Almost.

She felt a little guilty, allowing herself to relax. She didn't understand exactly how time travel worked, but a part of her was sure that Harry and Ron were still out there, existing and fighting without her.

She glimpsed a flash of burnt sienna in her peripheral and had barely enough time to groan before Rabastan Lestrange was upon them.

"Good afternoon, darling girl," he said with a grin and a flourish, kissing her knuckles. "The sun is shining just for you."

"Is it? I thought you were certain it shined out your arse," she said sweetly.

He laughed again and his gaze shifted to her hand in Regulus', "Hmm this is a development. No consideration to my proposal, darling girl?"

"I'd rather die," she sniffed. Regulus' hand tightened around hers.

"Rabastan. Good to see you," said Regulus coldly.

"Oh Reggie don't be like that," said Rabastan. "Your witch has claws, I just happen to have an itch to scratch."

He winked at Hermione. She wondered whether there was a subtle way to expel someone's brain out through their nose.

"Shove off, I prefer my men to not treat their indentured servants like rubbish," she snapped.

Rabastan looked genuinely abashed, "Er, I found out something interesting about that."

"What?" she asked, not sure if she was hearing correctly.

"Yes, I thought about what you said and decided I would look into it more."

"Are you quite certain someone hasn't killed you and replaced you with a clone?"

"A what?"

"Never mind. What did you find out?" her head was spinning; she was reasonably sure she was hallucinating.

"The, ah... well, the species is cursed. The line brought over to England by the Lestrange family were under a modified Imperius Curse. The elves that aren't directly descended from that line are still affected but they're not as bonded to their families."

"That's... well, that's completely fucked if I'm being honest," said Hermione, mulling over the new information. "That puts them firmly in the slave category."

"And you were right, I started looking into house elf magic and it's fascinating. They could be enormously powerful and we're using them to do our laundry."

"Well, yes, Purebloods here seem to think that anyone or thing that is not also a Pureblood is useless and therefore free labour," said Hermione drily.

"Yes, I guess that is true," said Rabastan with an expression of genuine remorse.

* * *

"Oi, Black, are you in there?" McKinnon snapped her fingers in front of Sirius, who started. "Gods, what is wrong with you? You've been in fairy land all day."

"Got a hangover," he grunted, waving away her fingers. "Sorry I'm not feeling particularly sociable."

She laughed disbelievingly, "I've never seen a hangover get you in such a funk, and I've seen a _lot_ of your hangovers."

Sirius thought back to the night before. That was a fair comment, but he'd never spent a night drinking with his estranged brother and a time travelling witch from the future.

Not that he could say any of that out loud. Although Hermione mentioned Dumbledore, the oath that bound them specified not letting the information trickle back to him either. He'd trust McKinnon with his life – often did, in fact – but she'd seize onto anything that could kill off their pesky Dark Lord problem.

"I ran into my brother and had a row," he said, deciding to tell a half truth. "I haven't seen him since I left Hogwarts, so it was a bit like a punch to the gut."

Her eyes softened and Sirius felt a bit guilty. It'd been _weird_ seeing his brother, sure, but they hadn't _really_ rowed.

No matter. He could hardly take it back now.

"I'm sorry Sir, that must be hard," she sat heavily back into her chair, her gaze straying to the framed picture of her and her brother at her Hogwarts graduation. His hair was the same wild curls, threaded with silver, an arm slung around her shoulder as he beamed proudly at her.

"Sorry," he said, kicking himself. "Sorry, I'm here talking about how I had to see my brother and- ah, fuck. Sorry."

"It's okay, really," she smiled, a little sadly. "Michael'd kick my arse if he saw me sitting around moping about it. Besides, your brother sucks. It's okay to be upset about that."

Sirius had an inexplicable urge to, a) sweep Marlene into a hug, and, b) cry.

He shook the urge off and smiled weakly, "Thanks Marls."

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE: I have literally no excuse for why this took so long except that every time I tried to make the characters talk to each other they wouldn't bloody do it. Also work has been really busy I guess, but mostly I was just completely unable to make Regulus talk and everything I wrote for Hermione sounded flat and unrealistic.**

 **So.**

 **This chapter isn't my favourite and when I finish the story it will be a major part of my editing process. The good news is that it is here now! And also I did a good chunk of planning for another story that has been rattling around my head for a while. I won't be publishing that until it's at least half done and I'm finished with this story and at least one of my other stories (probably Let Sleeping Lions Lie, I have more ideas for that). Also Marlene and Sirius just ran away with the dialogue, that sh*t wrote itself. So that was easy, at least.**

 **A favour? If you've gotten this far, can you tell me whether you like my OCs? I find myself wanting to weave more stories of the OCs into my story but I'm not sure whether it is something the readers would enjoy. I've got plans for Begonia and Asta and background stuff for Oberon and Margaux, but it's not worth writing it if you won't enjoy it.**

 **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!**

 **I love you and I'm terribly sorry about the unplanned break. I'll try get back into the weekly updates now.**

 **~ Maeve**


	11. 11 - Companions

**17 October 1979**

 **11\. Companions**

* * *

 _I'm skin and bones_  
 _I'm forever and always._  
 _I'm always watching stars collide._

 _You're lost and confused._  
 _You're alone and temporary._  
 _You're just sitting there watching stars collide._

 _\- For My Future Companion by Daisy Morrow_

* * *

Begonia Parkinson had been an interesting find for Hermione. She had never given much thought to Pansy's mother; hadn't wanted to, owing to the fact that Pansy was a horrible person that Hermione would rather not know at all.

But Begonia was a breath of fresh air in the otherwise buffed and polished wax-sculpture world of the upper-crust Pureblood society, and although Hermione couldn't actually tell her about the mission or the time travel or her real parentage, she felt a real kinship with the woman.

They had met for lunch three times in the last week. Hermione had never really had a close friend that wasn't distinctly (and stinkily) male, but she found herself enjoying it.

"Narcissa's pregnancy is going well," said Begonia, one hand settling over her own swollen stomach. "I hope it stays that way, the poor thing has had terrible luck. They've been married nearly six years now."

Hermione made a sympathetic noise, already knowing that Narcissa would have a successful pregnancy that resulted in the human manifestation of a haemorrhoid. "I can't imagine the pain of losing a pregnancy."

Begonia made a face halfway between sympathy and contemplation, "At least her husband loves her."

"Yours does not?"

"Oh Gods, no. Hollis is indifferent to my existence and I am constantly disgusted by his. His table manners are atrocious."

"Should have quizzed him on that before the wedding," Hermione grinned, imagining Begonia with a parchment and quill, poring over answers about table manners. _2 out of 15? Not good enough. I won't have him._

"I barely had the time to learn his name, let alone his finer habits," replied Begonia.

"Ah, it was arranged then?"

"Yes. So were Lucius and Narcissa for that matter, but they had the good luck to already be in love as well. You and Reg are lucky, it's definitely not the normal way to court."

"Yes, lucky," said Hermione, thinking of their actual meeting versus what everyone else had been told.

 _Significantly soggier,_ she thought, _but definitely still not the normal way to court._

"Ladies, I didn't expect to see you here," a familiar drawl sounded from behind Hermione, and the hair prickled and stood to attention on the back of her neck.

"Bella!" said Begonia, warmly. "You're not often in the Alley, I'm surprised you expect anyone."

The chair next to Hermione scraped back, who was still frozen in place except for the shaking of her hands. The echo of Cruciatus had intensified tenfold with the sound of Bellatrix's voice.

"We were just discussing how unusual it is to court freely these days," Begonia shuffled her chair to the side to make room. Hermione stiffly turned to Bellatrix and gave her a weak smile, resisting the strong compulsion to vomit on or curse the heavy-lidded witch.

Bellatrix scowled, "Yes, it is. You're very lucky, Hermione."

"I am?" asked Hermione in surprise. She had spent a long time thinking of Bellatrix as some mythical evil that the sight of a scowl on her face and her sulky tone, paired with the use of her name, was oddly humanising.

"At least you have not been foisted off on a man with whom you are, at best, vaguely disinterested in," Bellatrix twisted the ostentatious diamond ring and wedding band on her left hand, almost absentmindedly. "I never expected a love story, but someone who can at least hold a conversation would be nice."

Hermione didn't have anything to say to that, really. She could barely meet Bellatrix's eyes, let alone comfort the witch. She decided to just hum in a vaguely sympathetic manner.

"Aw Bella, is he being an arse again?" Begonia took the attention away from Hermione's lukewarm attempt at sympathy, patting Bella's arm with one hand. The other hand held a biscuit.

"He is always an arse, Begonia," Bellatrix was irritated, but she had relaxed into her chair, the picture of a petulant child. "I don't want children and I don't want his filthy hands groping me. He somehow can't get it through his thick head, so I've taken to cursing him if he tries."

"That's awful," said Hermione without thinking, and immediately regretted her decision when Bellatrix fixed her with a baleful stare.

"I'm not sure how much Regulus has told you, but I don't want the attentions of weak men," her insincere smile was dripping with blood. "I have the admiration of my Lord and I do not need a shrieking infant or idiot husband complicating matters."

All notions of relatability immediately fled the vicinity. Hermione felt like her lungs had been compressed as she squeaked out an apology, "Sorry, I just mean that it's awful that you both had to marry someone you don't love."

"It is," said Begonia cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the thick tension in the air. "It's okay though, once I've borne him an heir, he'll leave me alone and I won't have to watch him mishandle cutlery over breakfast anymore."

Hermione let out a light laugh, still feeling light headed.

"Has my baby cousin made any progress on his business notions?" asked Bellatrix, snagging a pastry without asking. "He seemed very enthusiastic about establishing family tapestries for the Purebloods."

"We've been investigating, but we concluded there are too few Pureblood families in Britain for it to be a viable business option," said Hermione, screwing up her nose.

"Yes, we'll be overrun by Mudbloods and Muggle-loving fools like Albus Dumbledore," said Bellatrix in disgust. "This is why my Lord is so important. Someone needs to prune the rotting branches of our society."

"Sure," said Hermione, poking the metaphorical bear, "but if British Purebloods keep inbreeding at the rate they currently do, the genetic problems of the offspring will hit a point of being unsustainable."

"That sounds like Muggle nonsense," said Bellatrix dismissively. "The education in Switzerland must be a joke."

"The Gaunt family inbred itself out of existence," said Hermione. "They were in the habit of marrying brother to sister, and they paid the price. Close relatives who procreate have a much higher chance of producing offspring with severe defects. I don't imagine much study has been done on the magical side of things, especially since you British Purebloods seem to prefer to stick your head in the sand instead of acknowledging that maybe Muggles aren't the complete idiots you think they are, but I would presume that eventually the magical blood would become unstable or cease to be reactive. That is to say, the children would go mad, or be born Squibs."

The silence rung for a moment. Bellatrix's lip curled into a sneer. Hermione considered the merits of Apparating and purposely Splinching herself.

"It's cute that you believe that," said Bellatrix. Her tone very much indicated that, in this case, "cute" meant "completely imbecilic". "Is this what you told Rab? He's been strange ever since you caught his eye, are you filling his head with fancies?"

She had leant over while speaking, now uncomfortably close to Hermione's face. The light line of scar on her throat prickled and she swallowed. Bellatrix's eyes were lit with a manic, evil glow that transformed her into the unstable psychopath that Hermione had faced in her previous timeline.

"I, er..." Hermione cleared her throat uneasily. "I haven't done anything to Rabastan."

Bellatrix tossed her head back and laughed, a reedy, mean sound, "He's been on a weird crusade about house elves, am I to believe he stumbled upon it himself?"

Hermione was unable to stop the snort that escaped, "Oh, that. I truly thought he was only on that to try and worm his way into my good graces."

The bubble of tension broke again when Bellatrix rolled her eyes, "I had hoped, but he continues on it despite your disinterest." She eyed Hermione critically, "Unless you're fucking him behind Reg's back."

Hermione choked, a strangled laugh escaping, "Absolutely not."

"Hmm," Bellatrix stood without ceremony. "Well, I must be off. I have errands to run for my Lord. Lovely speaking, ladies."

She walked away without a glance backwards. Hermione turned back to Begonia with an incredulous expression on her face, "Is she always like that?"

Begonia laughed, "That's her on a good day. Where did you learn all that stuff?"

"My maman wanted me to have a well-rounded education. Including Muggle concepts. Things are different in Switzerland."

"Very," agreed Begonia. "It sounds... interesting. How would you even fix a problem like that, if that's what would really happen?"

"Marrying internationally, or intermingling bloodlines. Not Pureblood, Muggle, Muggleborn, and half-blood. Are you related by blood to Hollis?"

"Yes," Begonia said thoughtfully. "The Parkinson's married Avery's a few generation's back, which is my father's line. I'd say cousins, a few times removed."

"You guys are weird," said Hermione drily.

"Well I can't disagree," Begonia flagged down a waiter and deposited two Galleon's in his hand. "I must be off too, Hollis insists on afternoon tea."

Hermione stood and nodded her thanks to the staff, following Begonia out into the Alley. They embraced and Begonia left to take to the public Floo.

* * *

Hermione felt a bit lost. She hadn't seen Regulus in nearly a week; he had been caught up in heir duties with his father, something to do with learning investments. Begonia was gone, and Hermione still hadn't gotten around to owling Asta about meeting. She wasn't sure she could face an afternoon staring at Narcissa Malfoy, and she definitely wasn't going to call on Rabastan no matter what Bellatrix had said about his sudden aboutface.

She wandered down the Alley and came to a halt in front of Ollivander's.

She hadn't given much thought to her wand since she had arrived. Reluctance, in part, because it wasn't really _her_ wand, and thus far she hadn't needed to use it extensively. It was foreign, and it was evil. In this timeline it was still being wielded by Bellatrix.

She fingered her wand in her robe pocket, and then drew in. Aiming in at a small pebble in the gutter, she swish-and-flicked and said, "Wingardium leviosa."

The wand bucked in her hand, resisting the pulse of magic for a couple of seconds before the pebble rose unsteadily. She was able to hold it for thirty seconds before sweat sprung to her brow and the wand zapped energy into her fingers. She yelped and flinched, and the pebble dropped to the ground again with a dull clunk.

"Oh dear, that won't do."

The voice came from nowhere and Hermione jumped, turning from the window to face the now-open door. Garrick Ollivander was leaning against the doorway, skin smoother and back straighter than Hermione had ever seen in her own time. His hair was still silver, and his eyes were like luminous crystal balls regarding her with the same calculating gaze that she had first faced, excited and nervous, with Professor McGonagall.

"Beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you. That wand, it is not your own?"

Hermione held it up between two fingers. It dangled, innocuously, and she made a face, "Not exactly. It does not think I deserve to wield it."

Ollivander moved with surprising grace and plucked the wand from her hands, examining it closely, "Yes I see. Bellatrix Black's wand is unlikely to lend itself willingly to a Muggleborn."

Hermione froze, her veins running with cold dread, "Sorry?"

The older wizard paused his examination to look up, eyes seeing through her, "I sold this to Bellatrix Black over fifteen years ago. _This_ wand, though. Curious. It is much older than it should be."

He turned, indicating she should follow him. He was still holding the only wand she owned, so she had no choice but to follow him, her heart in her throat.

The door clattered closed with gusto, shifting dust from the numerous shelves that had accumulated over the two months. Ollivander traversed the aisle with ease, leading her to a small, busy desk lit by what looked like a Muggle lamp.

He pulled out a drawer, filled with a box of lenses, not unlike that of an optometrist. He pulled the lamp closer – definitely a Muggle desk lamp.

"Nearly twenty years older than expected by my estimations, and I'm very rarely wrong. Where did you get this?"

"How did you know-" she began to ask, and his eyes flashed up to meet hers.

"You hold yourself differently. And Ollivander's have a touch of the Sight," he touched his index finger to his forehead. "You need a new wand. Put your arms out."

Startled, she did as she was told. A measuring tape whizzed out from another drawer and began measuring her inseam and various lengths. A quill sprung to life, scribbling the measurements on a scrap of parchment which then followed the wizard down an aisle.

"Vine wood, yes?" He hummed as he ran his finger along one of the shelves.

"Uh, yes. How-"

"I'd hazard a guess at dragon heartstring too." He pulled a box from the shelf, and flitted to the next, pulling two from there, before coming back to the desk. The measuring tape snapped closed and settled to wait on the desk like an obedient dog. Ollivander opened the first carefully and pushed the box towards her.

The wand gleamed in the low light. It was shorter and thicker than her original wand.

"Nine inches, vine wood, dragon heartstring. Rigid. Will produce beautiful curse-work."

She picked it up and immediately recoiled, "No."

The wand was settled back into the box, and the wizard presented her with the next. Her breath caught.

"Ten and three quarters, vine wood, dragon heartstring. A wand made for great things."

She grasped at it, for the familiar hum of magic and control, but it never came. Ollivander frowned.

"Strange. That wand sings for you, but it is not compatible." He made to take the wand back and her fingers allowed it to slip through. She watched wordlessly as the wand, _her wand,_ was stowed away in its box. "Try this. Eleven inches, walnut wood and dragon heartstring. Springy. A versatile wand, designed for innovators."

"This is the same as Be- as the other wand." She eyed the new wand apprehensively. It was handsome, polished to a shine and carved with runic symbols.

"Ah, it is not the materials that make it unsuitable for you. A dragon heartstring is the easiest core to turn to the Dark Arts, and walnut's loyalty is hard won. Ms Black is a witch of unusual calibre; frequent and powerful Dark Magic has turned the wand from the blinding Light you exude."

Oddly flattered, Hermione reached for the wand. It sent a spray of sparks upon her touch, and immediately felt like an extension of her wand arm. It felt nearly like she had touched an electric fence.

Ollivander nodded approvingly, "Good, very good. This wand will serve you well."

"I have no gold."

"I will charge it to Oberon's account." He turned to replace the boxes that contained the unsuitable wands. "Eleven Galleons is peanuts for the daughter he has longed for."

Hermione decided that asking how he knew she was on Oberon's sponsorship was probably a redundant action, based on previous experience. "Thank you."

"No need. I have an inkling you are an important bright spot in an increasingly dark time. Now, your name?"

"Hermione."

"Very good. Be well, Hermione." He nodded, a short, controlled jerk of his chin, and smiled. She re-entered the Alley somewhat invigorated. Something about not carrying around the truly evil wand, and having her own again, made the weight on her shoulders seem a little less.

She decided on a whim to drop by the Owl Post Shop and send a missive to Remus asking to meet.

* * *

Remus had unpacked and repacked the pantry three times that morning. Sirius was working, again. His sixth 12-hour shift in a row; due to some nefarious plot on the Department Head, the entire middle-ranks squad had been working overtime to find the source.

Remus could answer that.

 _Voldemort._ It was Voldemort. He'd never wished a painful death on another wizard before, but he hoped that Voldemort would be slowly crushed under _[the weight of his sins]_ six thousand Flobberworms in an unfortunate, gelatinous accident.

But Dumbledore had stayed their hand. It was sensible, rushing in to battle with no plan was a sure-fire way to be quickly killed.

But he was still restless. He didn't put much stock in the "inner-wolf" bull that some people liked to spout, but he felt like a caged animal pacing.

When an owl arrived, it was a pleasant distraction. It landed on the kitchen table and surveyed the room with a bored stare. When Remus approached, the bird held out its leg impatiently. He detached the scrap of parchment and offered the owl a biscuit from the jar on the table.

The ink was scratched into the parchment hastily, and he had to squint to read it.

 _Remus, I'd like to meet to train with you, if you're free. I feel like I am out of practise. Hermione_

Despite his misgivings and his usually cautious nature, he scribbled the address on the back of the parchment and reattached it to the owl's leg. The bird took flight and Remus scanned the room. He would refold the laundry.

Not even ten minutes had passed when there was a knock at the door. He opened it with a measure more enthusiasm than he normally would have.

Hermione was poised at the door brimming with energy, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He stood aside to let her in, and she very nearly bounded into the sitting room on the balls of her feet.

"Sorry," she said. "I know you barely know me right now, but I've not got anyone else to speak to right now and you were so brilliant when I knew you."

She pulled out a wand with such speed and dexterity that, should she have tried to harm him, he would not have had the time to defend himself. He flinched, but she had just held it out for his examination.

"I got a new wand. I lost my old wand, I'd been using someone else's."

"It's very handsome," he said, examining the runes. "Runes for protection and loyalty too."

She beamed, "Isn't it? Now, I want to practise. Is there somewhere we could duel? I've been avoiding using magic because it felt so _awful,_ but I just want to practise. I can't very well defeat Voldemort if I can barely cast a Disarming Charm."

Remus thought it was very unlikely that she couldn't cast a disarming charm. "There's an acre of wood backing onto the property my parent's left me. We could go there."

"Okay. Will you Apparate us?"

She held out her hand. Remus gave brief thought to the fact she knew he was a werewolf, and apparently still admired him, and grasped it. It was small and warm, surprisingly soft. He had expected her to somehow be prickly.

Before he could Apparate, the door swung open and Sirius entered with a shout, "Honey, I'm home. James is with me."

He entered through the sitting room and shrugged off his outer robes. He was halfway to the kitchen before he realised there was someone else in the room, and he stopped so abruptly that James walked straight into him.

"Oof," said James, stepping back. "What'd'y..."

He trailed off, noticing the extra body in the room. His eyes trailed across Hermione, his brow furrowed, and alighted on their still-joined hands.

Remus dropped her hand like it had scalded him. "Sirius, James. I wasn't expecting to see you until later in the evening."

"Crouch got sick of the security details and told Moody to get rid of the excess reprobates." Sirius looked genuinely exhausted, not something he let many people see. His undereye were smudged purple and prominent, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days which gave him a vague air of homelessness. "I thought I'd come home and take a nap, but James said he missed you."

There was a beat of silence and then Sirius clarified, "Moony, I mean."

"Am I... missing something?" asked James, looking between the three others. "I don't mean to be rude, but who are you?"

"We met her at the pub," said Remus with a completely straight face. "Her name is, er..."

He paused and Hermione cut in, "Fleur. Fleur Delacour. Remus can't pronounce the _r_ for the life of him." She laughed and bumped her shoulder against his lightly.

"Yeah, sorry," he looked sheepish. "She does that weird rolling thing, _rrr."_

He sounded like he had a fish bone stuck in his esophagus. Hermione stifled a genuine giggle.

"Ah, bloody hell, is that your name? I think I had too much tequila," Sirius dove straight in to character, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully. He turned back to James and said, "I made the mistake of thinking I could out-drink her and I was thoroughly outmatched."

"You never learn," James said fondly, apparently satisfied with the frankly appalling string of lies they had all just told. "Nice to meet you. I'm James, James Potter."

He held out his hand, and she shook it firmly. He was achingly familiar, the erratic hair and easy smile a near-exact replica of his future son. But he held himself differently to Harry, straighter and more carefree. The weight of the world was not on his shoulders. The hazel eyes behind the wire-framed glasses were completely unfamiliar.

"Nice to meet you," she repeated. "Remus and I were just going to practise duelling. I got a new wand."

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE: Thanks for all the feedback on the last chapter! Y'all seem split down the middle with the OCs, so I'll just go on with the plans I have for them - essentially, building on how Hermione can make a life in this timeline - and continue with the focus on canon characters. The general consensus is _"as long as it adds to the story"_ and I can work with that. **

**In response to a review asking why I keep bringing up skin colour, the answer is simply that I believe I am using descriptors of skin colour in completely justifiable contexts in the story. Hermione, who we're seeing through Regulus's eyes mainly, is an exotic flavour at this stage. She's Muggleborn, she's Portuguese and Nigerian (distantly), she's a particular brand of fierce and frank that he's never encountered before, and so a lot of his internal commentary is around what is _different_ about her. That includes her somewhat liberal care factor when it comes to showing skin (e.g. wearing only a large t-shirt). **

**I implore you to ask yourself if you would have the same knee-jerk reaction to a description of "milky/porcelain/alabaster skin" - I'd wager that you would not. Her skin colour isn't necessarily important, but her heritage is - magical and Muggle. If you truly find it annoying, I ask that you don't read my stories because I am fond of my identity politics and how they intersect with the magical world, so chances are you will end up finding most of my writing very annoying. That's fine, tastes differ, but you've had fair warning.**

* * *

 **X Author recommendation: A Lovely Villain (written with a full stop between each word) AU Tomione's for the most part, one of the most masterful wrangler's of plot and intrigue I have ever read, and they're also just the loveliest - they message me to thank me for reviewing every week, even though it must be among hundreds of others.**

* * *

 **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! ~ Maeve**


	12. 12 - Contention

**17 October 1979**

* * *

 **12\. Contention**

* * *

 _Untying_  
 _lighter I do feel_  
 _in my pocket there's nothing_  
 _empty from head to heel-_

 _let others do their shouldering_  
 _layer upon layer to peel_  
 _ambitionless all I do is dreaming_  
 _in contention with none to deal._

 _\- Untying by Dr Peter Lim_

* * *

"Ooh," Sirius said, immediately perking up. "I'll duel. Prongs?"

"Are you sure? You look exhausted." Hermione tried to not sound overly concerned about the man she'd "met in a pub" a week earlier, but he looked completely wrecked.

"I've seen you drink, now I want to see you fight. Just let me get a Recuperation Potion."

"I'll come too," James said immediately, rolling his shoulders back like he was limbering up. "We've been doing paperwork for a week straight."

"Speak for yourself, I've been being harangued by Moody," Sirius grumbled. "Where are we going?"

"The Lupin property," said Remus. "There's a wood out the back."

"Great," said Sirius. He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a corked vial labelled _Recup. Oct 79._ He downed the purple liquid and made a face before vanishing the vial. "Alright, I'm ready."

Remus cautiously extended his hand back to her and she took it easily.

"I'll see you there," he told his other friends, and then Apparated.

They landed in a small copse, dark from the tall trees blocking out the light. It was eerily still and silent.

"This was your parent's property?" Hermione asked, her voice breaking the silence in a way that felt almost forbidden.

"Yes. They both passed away in the last year." His voice held a tinge of grief, but he smiled genuinely as he looked around. "I grew up in a small house that is up that way." He nodded towards the north.

James and Sirius Apparated in with a pop, one after the other. She was struck with a reminder of Harry and Ron, laughing and shoving each other as they descended the dorm stairs, the morning Harry was ribbing Ron for splinching half an eyebrow in his Apparation test. Her heart ached.

"Are you ready?" asked Sirius, nearly quivering with anticipation. "I'm going first. I've got a lot of energy."

"Alright, go easy on me Black. I'm out of practise." Hermione divested herself of her outer robes, leaving her in a pair of black jeans and a plain black t-shirt. The frigid air brushed along her body and bare neck and she shivered as she settled into duelling stance, wand hanging loosely in her hand. The wand seemed to hum in approval.

They bowed, Hermione stiff and proper, and Sirius like he'd been born with the ability. He probably had been, come to think of it.

"Begin," said James, taking a step back as they both shot into an attack. Hermione brandished her wand, casting non-verbally with ease, a stunner. Sirius had already cast a shield charm before it reached him and retaliated with a stinging hex.

Hermione dodged the hex easily, using Sirius's preoccupation with holding the shield to transfigure the earth beneath his feet, tripping him. Sirius swore, falling sideways, but used the momentum to launch himself out of the way of the curse she had sent after him.

He was back on his feet in the blink of an eye, moving fluidly to cast a disarming spell, followed quickly by a stunner. Hermione barely avoided them, and she realised she was sweating already.

They continued, toe to toe for skill, for nearly twenty minutes. As time wore on, Sirius became cockier and Hermione was increasingly vicious. Her brow furrowed in concentration, beads of sweat rising at her hairline.

"I still feel like I'm missing something," said James to Remus. "Why is Sirius going so hard? He's exhausted and she's pretty enough, wouldn't he rather flirt?"

"Ha, good joke. No, she's into his brother I'm pretty sure." Remus cast his mind back to Regulus sulking as Sirius tried to make a pass, a smile playing on his lips.

"Regulus?" asked James, his voice sounding strained.

"Yes, I-" Remus was cut off by a feminine shriek of victory and they turned back to the clearing to find Hermione straddling Sirius, her wand to his throat.

"Yield," she said, the commanding tone slightly ruined by her panting.

Sirius raised his hands above his head. Remus noted his wand a few feet away, abandoned.

"I yield, I yield." Sirius was grinning, invigorated, and then flipped her over into the dusty ground. She landed with an " _oof"_ also grinning. They paused for a moment in mutual admiration, Sirius leaning over her, before he stood and offered his hand to help her up.

"You're not bad, not bad at all," complimented Sirius. "But you need to loosen up. You are all technique, and your technique is perfect, but out in the real world you need to learn to be fluid."

"Sirius, get away from her." James held his wand aloft firmly, pointed at the curly-haired witch. "She's not telling the truth about who she is."

The other three paused, guilty faced and caught out.

"James, what do you mean?" tried Remus.

"You mentioned Regulus, Rem; I knew she was familiar. You're the Dagworth-Granger witch, aren't you? You're not Fleur Delacour."

Hermione sighed, "Alright, yes. But there's no need for that, Remus and Sirius already know."

James' wand wavered for a moment and he shot the pair an accusing look. Sirius squirmed under his gaze.

"Why the bloody hell would you lie to me about that?" He demanded of his two friends. They exchanged another guilty look and Hermione sighed again.

"Put the wand down, it's my fault. I didn't want you to jump to conclusions if you'd seen me in the paper. Which you obviously have."

Hermione sat back down in the dirt and indicated they should all sit around her. Sirius and Remus did so immediately, and James eyed her warily for a moment before following suit.

"My first question is how you have these hooligans sitting like well-trained dogs."

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter from bubbling out. "Perhaps it's in their nature."

James sighed and Hermione suddenly felt an ache in her chest, so like Harry he was.

"Why bother lying?"

"I told you, I didn't want you jumping to conclusions. For all the help that was."

"You're involved with Regulus?"

A blush rose to her cheeks, and she nodded.

"And you know he's involved with Voldemort?"

She nodded again. Sirius caught her eye, looking pained.

"And you met Sirius and Rem... how?"

"Actually, in the pub," she said. James gave her an incredulous look. "No, really. Reg and I went for a drink."

"Sirius doesn't go to Wizarding pubs."

"It was a Muggle pub in Hampstead."

"With Regulus? You were at a Muggle pub with Regulus?"

"Yes, they were," Remus cut in. "I know it sounds completely nuts, but they really were."

James rubbed the bridge of his nose, "You know what, I don't even want to know." He turned back to the guilty pair of his friends with a disapproving sniff.

Remus leapt up, "I'll go next, shall I?"

James sighed at the obvious change of topic but seemed to allow it. Hermione took a moment to put her hair back up where it had started spiralling out of control and then settled back into her stance.

"Remember what I said, looser with the stance. You're not brandishing a sword, a wand should be an extension of your arm," Sirius called out. Hermione furrowed her brow and readjusted, her shoulders dropping. Sirius nodded approvingly, "Atta girl."

They both bowed and James took the referee position again, shouting "Begin."

Sirius kept his eyes fixed on the pair, occasionally shouting corrections that Hermione took on smoothly. Remus didn't have quite the flair for dramatics that Sirius did, but he was skilled and strong.

The duel was over quickly. Hermione was tired and out of practise, and Remus quickly overpowered her, pinning her to the ground panting.

"I yield," she said, rolling to the side to avoid a Blasting Curse. "Gods I'm out of shape."

"My brother is doing a poor job of it then," contributed Sirius helpfully. James would have thought she hadn't heard but for the ruddy stain on her cheeks.

She lay on the ground and said, with a huff, "I guess it's time to up the cardio if I want to nail Voldemort for good."

"We could get Moody to put you through the wringer," suggested Sirius. Hermione looked interested and James couldn't stop his jaw from dropping.

"How in-Dumbledore's-pocket is Moody nowadays?"

"Not enough for Dumbledore's liking."

James looked sidelong at Remus, "I am so unbelievably confused."

"I want to tell you, but it's not mine to tell," replied Remus. James groaned.

Hermione and Sirius continued their conversation in hushed tones for another couple of moments, and then Hermione sidled over to the pair to bid farewell.

James opened his mouth, unsure if he was going to berate her or pepper her with questions, but she kissed him on the cheek and Disapparated, leaving the faint smell of cinnamon behind.

"What," said James slowly, "and I cannot stress this enough, the bloody fuck is going on?"

Sirius and Remus exchanged another glance, and then Sirius shrugged, "Sorry mate. We're quite literally oath-bound. It'll have to come from her."

* * *

There was a sharp, precise knock on her door. Hermione frowned. Regulus didn't knock anymore and no one else visited.

She opened the door carefully, wand poised. A faint smell of musk and bergamot hung in the air – Reg's cologne – and a bouquet of flowers with a note attached lay on the welcome mat.

 _Sorry I couldn't stay to say hello. Do you know the language of flowers? ~ R. A. B._

Sweetheart roses. _I miss you._ Gardenias. _You're lovely._ Yellow tulips. _There's sunshine in your smile._

An odd bunch. But she smiled, nonetheless, her fingers pressed gently against her lips as she returned to her book in front of the fire.

* * *

 **SORRY IT'S TAKEN SO LONG AND IS STILL SO SHORT! I've missed youu all so much. I've had a bad case of writers block, and work is CRAZY, AND I'm getting married at the end of the month.**

 **Good news - I have ideas for other stories brewing. Stay tuned!**

 **PLEASE READ AND REVIEW 3**

 **~ Maeve**


	13. 13 - Convergence

**19 October 1978**

* * *

 **13\. Convergence**

* * *

 _The elements converge and then react,_  
 _the caterpillars weave themselves cocoons,_  
 _the world amends its stock of gathered facts,_  
 _the moths emerge, in flight to greet the moon,_

 _The firmament, destroyed and rearranged,_  
 _the universal essence found in change._

 _\- Metamorphosis by Homunculus_

* * *

Hermione woke to the feeling of someone nearby. She lay still for a moment, regarding the room around her before her eyes settled on a familiar slim figure in the armchair by the fire. His eyes were closed, and each huff of air blew the strand of dark hair off his face before it settled again just in time for the next breath.

She slid out of bed and padded over the fire, stoking the coals and adding a log. The flames licked at the bark and roared to life. Hermione turned back to Regulus and tucked the strand of hair up so it would stop tickling his nose. His eyes fluttered for a couple of moments before he focussed on her face. He gave a sleepy smile.

"You could've joined me in the bed you know," she scolded lightly.

"You were rather asleep. I didn't want to disturb you."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too. Did you get my flowers?"

"I did." She smiled and settled in to the seat across from him. "What are our plans today?"

"Well, father has given me some brief reprieve from learning about the intricacies of broom manufacturing and related accounting issues," a dry look of amusement, "so we have my mother's absolute blessing to find you a bejewelled symbol of your Black family servitude... she didn't put it in those exact words, of course."

Hermione smiled, equally amused. Her heart took up residence in her throat shortly afterwards, contemplating the task ahead of them. "So the cup...?"

"We must risk being pelted with geraniums again, yes. It is ready."

"Might as well get it over with then," she said, rising to dress.

* * *

Gorehook opened the door a fraction before beckoning them in quickly with a glance around the yard.

"Welcome, et cetera and other such human annoyances," he said, leading them into the centre of the cottage again. The path was entirely different to the last time they had visited.

The cup sat in the middle of the table, a breathtakingly accurate replica of the original. Gorehook turned to look at them, and then, startlingly, beamed proudly. "I hope you are pleased with the results. This is some of my finest work."

Hermione reached towards it and Gorehook let out what could only be described as a cat-like hiss, "Don't touch it with your bare hands, silly human. Unless you want to object _imbued_ with your magical signature."

"I most certainly do _not,"_ she said, withdrawing her hands immediately. The goblin nodded, satisfied.

"This will stand against powerful warding?" confirmed Regulus.

"The most powerful warding will not detect trickery; of that I can assure you."

"I don't suppose you can instill a general sense of foreboding into it, could you?" Hermione half joked.

Gorehook examined her underneath hooded lids, "I'm not in the habit of ruining good workmanship for the whims of humans."

"Of course not," she hastily reassured him. "I was joking. Your work is beautiful."

"Yes, I know." He preened under the compliment, before his brows snapped down into another frown. "Now, if that was all, you must be going."

He began to herd them out of the room, bundling the new cup into a leather case. "No dallying on my lawn, you'll upset the geraniums again."

"Yes sir," said Regulus, catching Hermione's eye and giving a lazy smirk that reminded her startlingly of his brother some years into the future. The thought choked her up briefly. She closed her eyes and swallowed the emotion.

Regulus laid his hand gently on the small of her back, steering her out. He had the leather case in his other hand.

As before, Gorehook basically pushed them out of the house and the door slammed shut behind them. Unlike last time, however, they didn't linger on the lawn – although Hermione noted Reg's eyes flicked down to and got stuck on her lips.

"Let's go," she said, goose bumps erupting down her arms. "We should go and see Oberon."

Reg tore his eyes away from her lips, chagrined, and nodded. He offered his hand, and with a quick glance around to check there were no stray eyes on them, they Disapparated.

* * *

Sirius was sick of paperwork. There had been a massacre of a muggleborn and her family two days ago that him and Marlene had been too late to save. This pissed him off and also parked him with a metaphorical fuck-ton of paperwork.

He swiped a hand over his eyes and groaned.

"You okay, Sir?" asked Marlene, leaning back in her chair. Her voluminous hair had been gathered into an unceremonious bun with her wand shoved through it. She wasn't wearing any make-up – leaving her bereft of her usual put-togetherness – owing to the fact that they had been there for nearly 24 hours now.

"Just sick of this shit."

He wasn't just referring to the paperwork, a fact that Marlene seemed to know if the expression on her face was anything to go by.

Still, she ignored the implications and said, "Just another couple of pages to go and we can go home. To bed."

A glance at the purple bruising marring her otherwise olive skin confirmed she was just as exhausted as Sirius was. He looked back at the page in front of him.

 _Name of deceased: Madison Smythe_

 _Age of deceased: 1 year_

 _Cause of death: Unforgivable – Killing Curse_

 _Time of death: 18 October 1978 – unknown time_

His handwriting was progressively worse the further down the page he got.

"Nope," he announced, standing up and shrugging on his leather jacket in one smooth movement. "Get up McKinnon, they're not getting any less dead. I need a drink."

Marlene looked longingly at the door, "But the paperwork-"

"Wil be here tomorrow, when we've had a drink and a decent night's sleep," said Sirius firmly.

It didn't take much convincing her, "Fine, but let me put on my face. I look like I've been punched in both eyes."

She disappeared into the bathroom for about five minutes and came out looking a little more like herself. "Let's go."

* * *

They found themselves at a hole-in-the-wall bar on Tottenham Court Road. Muggle, of course.

Marlene looked perfectly at home sipping at an enormous glass of Guinness. Sirius felt a surge of affection for the witch sitting opposite him, leather jacket and shit-kicker boots the epitome of everything his mother would hate – did hate, in fact.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, cradling her chin in her hand and cocking her head to examine him.

"How much my mother would hate this little scene," he replied honestly. "She hated my leather jacket, imagine seeing I'd made a friend who wears the same."

Marlene quirked her lips, amused. "I'm sure the fact I'm a halfblood would contribute a little."

He cracked a grin, "Maybe a little."

A short stocky blonde waitress dropped the whiskey soda Sirius had ordered to replace the dregs of his last drink, shooting a vaguely flirtatious smile back at the table as she left. Marlene watched her go with an odd, unreadable look on her face.

"How are your folks?" he asked, rather than try and decipher her expression.

Her face dropped. "It's hard. They're getting older and Michael was living back with them to help them out. It worked fine because he was in the Auror resourcing department and so he wasn't out in the field, but I can't do that, and Maggie is still in Hogwarts."

Sirius reached across the table and squeezed her hand, "Have you thought about getting a Home Care Witch?"

"Yeah," she grimaced. "They're expensive, and until Michael's indemnity is paid out, I just can't afford it."

"How long will that be?"

She shrugged, and then rolled her neck into the shrug, and Sirius heard her neck popping and crunching. No doubt a result of the gruelling 24 hours of paperwork and subsequent desk-hunching. "Could be a week. Could be a couple of months. It's another lot of paperwork, and there's a _lot_ of indemnities being processed right now."

"Let me help, please." The words flew out of his mouth completely unbidden, and Marlene immediately opened her mouth in protest. "No, wait, before you say no. You know my uncle left me an inheritance; I've got plenty of money. It's what, twenty galleons a week? Twenty-five? Let me cover it until the paperwork is sorted. God knows I don't need the money, I've only got myself to look after."

Marlene wavered, and Sirius surged on, "Please Marls. I'm feeling pretty fuckin' helpless with everything going on, let me do this one thing."

She sighed, "Fine. But _only_ until the indemnity comes through, and _only_ if you let me pay you back some."

Sirius weighed it up, seemed to think better of arguing the point, and shrugged. "Fine. Alright."

She smiled, an action that softened her features dramatically. "Thanks Sir."

"No problem, let's get drunk." Sirius tossed back the whiskey soda with practised ease and waved down the blonde waitress for another. "Do you want anything?"

Marlene looked at her half-drunk glass of Guinness and said, "Fuck it, why not? A vodka lime and soda please."

The whiskey swirled around behind Sirius's eyes, and he blinked slowly, savouring the feeling. He could feel the magical (in the metaphorical sense) liquid settling into his aching muscles and bones, relaxing the week of stress and taking his mind away from the horrific climate of the world.

Marlene also looked a little more carefree, the weight of the world having lifted from her shoulders with the prospect of a Home Care Witch on the horizon. She tossed back the remnants of the Guinness and cracked her neck again.

"I don't want to talk about anything that matters," she said. "Tell me something I don't know about you."

"My favourite colour is purple. I never go to Wizarding pubs. Ummm, the Sorting Hat tossed up between Slytherin and Gryffindor for a bit."

Her eyes gleamed at the new information, "What made it choose Gryffindor?"

Sirius snorted, "I said I'd flush it down a toilet if it put me anywhere near that godforsaken dungeon."

"What made you choose it, then?" She cocked her head, examining him. "Surely it would be easier to go Slytherin. With your family."

"I didn't want to be the same as my family," he shrugged with practised nonchalance. "And I already knew James. My family didn't like the Potters, but they were a part of the pureblood society, and vaguely related to us. We'd met at some of the stuffy events, and we were mates. I didn't want to be separated from him."

A partial truth, but it contained the basic truths. He didn't mention that his mother was a certifiable psychopath who took the burning tip of her wand to him whenever he questioned the standard _Mudbloods are scum, purebloods are superior_ line taken by the upper crust purebloods his parents favoured the company of.

"Hm," was all Marlene responded.

"Mind you, James almost punched me in the mouth a number of times in first year. I accidentally used the M word more than once."

Marlene winced, "No he wouldn't like that. Not with Lily."

"Yeah. What's your favourite colour then?"

"Green," she grinned. "Don't tell the rest of the lions, I'd be kicked out of the club."

Their drinks arrived, and the blonde waitress made eyes at Marlene. "Can I get ya a menu?"

"Yes please," said Marlene, not looking away from Sirius. The waitress wilted and murmured a confirmation while she slipped away.

"I think the waitress is flirting with you, Marls." Sirius cracked a grin at Marlene's look of confusion. "She's making eyes and all you want are her menus."

Marlene giggled; a sound Sirius hadn't heard since approximately fifth year. "What can I say? A girls gotta eat."

They bantered and drank and ignored the looming war for the evening, standard pub fare (a meat pie and fish of the day) consumed gladly.

* * *

Sirius drank a lot. Not enough for his poor body to succumb to drunkenness – his alcohol tolerance was worryingly high for his age – but enough that he swayed a little when they stood up to leave.

Marlene was three sheets to the wind, her eyes half-closed as they stepped onto the street.

"I feel a lil better Sir," she proclaimed, taking a liberal inhale of the crisp night air. "I needed that."

"Me too, Marls," he said, his arm winding around her waist as she tripped on a crack in the pavement. "Fuck, I feel like my life is just one stress on another."

Marlene mumbled in agreement and Sirius sent a guilty look towards to inebriated witch. He was always complaining around her, it seemed, and he felt bad for it every time. She didn't seem to notice.

"Where's your place Marlene?" he asked, forcing them to stop. "I'm not letting you Apparate in your state."

"Near the Ministry," said Marlene, leaning into his side.

They walked in comfortable silence for a little while, and then Marlene said, "I miss Michael."

The three-word sentence sank into Sirius's stomach like a rock. "I know."

"It's scary Sir. Before, I knew things were bad. I knew a war was coming. But it didn't feel real. And now I'm just so fucking _angry_ all the time. I want to go out and throttle Death Eaters with my bare hands."

The venom in her voice was new, for her, but Sirius couldn't find it in him to be surprised. He felt the same way. Writing up a report on the death of an infant earlier that day had really driven it home. He hummed in agreement.

"Here we are," they stopped in front of a modest block of red-brick flats.

"C'mon, I'll walk you in." Sirius helped her up the stairs and watched her fumble with the keys. The door swung open, revealing an open living/dining/kitchen area, and a door off to the side, where he assumed her bedroom was.

A ginger cat with a squashed in face sat on the sofa, watching him suspiciously as he helped Marlene take her coat off.

"Hello Crooks," she crooned, padding over and sinking onto the carpet in front of the cat.

The cat seemed to smile. Sirius blinked. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

"Sir, this is Crookshanks," she beckoned him over. He knelt by the sofa next to her. "Say hello!"

"Hello Crookshanks," he said, feeling stupid. Crookshanks stretched and gave him a once over. Seemingly accepting his presence, the very large, ugly cat rolled onto his back and offered up his belly.

"That's a trap," said Sirius, narrowing his eyes at the feline.

Marlene giggled.

"Marlene," said Sirius.

"Yeah?"

"Why is the cat the size of a medium sized dog?"

"Because he's part Kneazle." She said it as though Kneazles weren't powerful magical creatures and she happened to have one sitting in her lounge room.

That explained why the cat seemed to actually be listening to the words they were saying.

"Sir?" She leaned into his shoulder. Her breath washed over his face, acrid vodka and lime.

"Yeah?"

"Stay with me? I don't like being alone."

"Okay, Marls, let's get you to bed." He stood up and pulled her with him. She toddled into the ensuite after picking up an oversized t-shirt. She emerged ten minutes later, fresh-faced and ready for bed.

She curled up on the mattress, looking inexplicably tiny and vulnerable. Sirius tucked in the covers around her, took off his boots and lay on the covers beside her. Marlene sighed, satisfied.

"You're a good friend."

He grinned, unseen in the dark. "I'm the one who has to do the walk of shame tomorrow, in the same clothes I wore today."

"Oh shush, you've been wearing the same clothes most of this week," teased Marlene. She turned on her side to face him. "Hey, if things get fucked up and I die, will you take Crooks?"

"Marlene, no one is going to die-"

"But if I do," she said, firmly, "promise me you will take Crooks. I don't want him to end up in the Emporium for a hundred years if I die. He's not very pretty, you know. People might not like him."

Sirius laughed lowly, thinking of the definitely-ugly but also somewhat endearing squashed face of the feline in question. "Alright Marls. I promise I'll look after Crooks."

She sighed, satisfied, and almost immediately settled into sleep.

Sirius stared blankly up at the ceiling, watching shadows chase each other as the night wore on. Marlene breathed evenly next to him, and despite the calm air and the alcohol settling into his veins, he wasn't able to keep his eyes closed.

Until all at once he couldn't keep them open anymore, and darkness engulfed him.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE: Hi folks, I've missed you! The good news is my writers block has disappeared and I kind of know where I'm going with this story now. The bad news is I'm starting a part time bachelors degree on top of working full time so I have even less time than normal to write. :D But we shall see.**

 **Also good news: my favourite fanfic author .Villain followed and reviewed one of my stories (It's a new one, AU Tomione, The Physician and the Fury, check it out xxxxx) and I totally spent a whole morning fangirling about it. Also I got married in April (to the one reviewer who wanted to know why my profile said I have a husband since December, I've just called him my husband pretty much since our son was born, since getting married was inevitable and I need time to get used to it (still not used to it, by the way))**

 **Can't wait to hear what you think about this chapter!**

 **~Maeve**


	14. 14 - Clarity

**20 October 1978**

* * *

 **14\. Clarity**

* * *

 _And in the waves of confusion,_  
 _we laughed as life swept us off our feet._  
 _And in the fire of destitution,_  
 _we claimed joy amidst the heat._  
 _And despite all our tears,_  
 _and beyond all our pain;_  
 _We sought clarity,_  
 _and danced through our rain._

 _\- Clarity by Ashley Black_

* * *

In the weak but warm strains of the autumn morning, Sirius opened his eyes. He took a moment to get his bearings.

He let out an undignified yelp and then scrambled back against the bedhead, having found Crookshanks sitting on his chest like a heavy and particularly ginger loaf of bread.

Unfortunately, being a cat, when Sirius scrambled backwards in an attempt to get away from the squash faced monstrosity, Crookshanks merely dug his claws in and the result was an uncharacteristically grumpy Sirius with several holes in his chest.

It was at that moment Marlene re-entered the room, drying her hair with a towel and passing him a steaming cup of coffee.

"Morning sunshine," she said brightly. "Oh, and good morning Sirius."

"Your cat just mauled me," he grumbled, taking the coffee. "How are you so chirpy? You were unconscious bordering on alcohol poisoning a couple of hours ago."

"Hangover potion. Do you want a shower?"

"Yeah." He detached Crookshanks from his chest, the latter being less than pleased to be parted from the warm body.

Under the shower, the troubles of the world seemed to melt away. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the physical sensation of the spray beating into him.

True to last night's quip, Sirius didn't have fresh clothes, so he _scourgify'd_ his dirty clothes and pulled them back on. He glanced in the mirror. Without his hair products available, his normally sleek hair had begun to dry frizzy.

"Marlene, have you got any gel?" He walked out of the tiny bathroom, and Marlene shrieked.

"Turn around, I'm getting changed!"

"Ah sorry," he immediately turned back to face the bathroom. "So, gel? Or Sleekeazy's?

"I should have a little bit of Sleekeazy's left in the second drawer."

"Gotcha." It was in the second drawer. He smoothed some through his hair and the frizz relaxed. "Can I come out yet?"

"Yeah, all ready. It's nearly 8, we should go. Moody will have our heads if the paperwork isn't on his desk by 10."

Sirius groaned.

* * *

Hermione clutched Regulus's hand. Outwardly she was trying to project an aura of calm with a generous sprinkling of lovelorn to sell the illusions of their courtship.

It wasn't hard, in part owing to the fact that she wasn't entirely sure it was still an illusion.

Either way. Still terrified. Breaking into Gringotts wasn't something she had on her bucket list. Unfortunately, it _was_ on her To Do list.

"I'm here to see Rognot," said Reg, the perfect picture of Pureblood control.

"Certainly sir," said one of the goblins, scuttling away promptly. They were only waiting a few moments before a younger-looking goblin stomped out, fixed Regulus with a look of deep loathing, and gestured for them to follow.

"Did you murder this goblin's mother?" Hermione asked quietly.

Regulus cracked a weak grin, "Don't be silly darling, goblins immediately kill their own mothers."

Hermione swallowed lightly.

Rognot led them into a small room, draped with heavy material and lined with what appeared to be solid gold statues of wizards and witches in varying states of horrific pain.

She repressed a shudder. Goblins were unpleasant creatures, her own predilection for non-human creatures aside.

The door swung close with a resounding _thunk_ and Rognot turned to face them. He examined Regulus, his face twisting into a sneer. "Young Black. One has to admire the utter cheek of you to come back here."

Regulus went still. Hermione gave him a sidelong glance, trying not to panic.

"Pardon, Rognot?"

The goblin grinned, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "We know all that happens within these walls, boy. An _Imperius_ curse is powerful magic. It was foolish to think I would not detect it. More foolish still, _Obliviate_ is a weakened curse on goblins."

Hermione watched Regulus swallow heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing like a marionette puppet on a loose string. She could feel the colour drain from her face. Goblins weren't known for their leniency.

"Rognot-" started Regulus, unsure what he was going to say next.

"Quiet," snapped Rognot. "There is little you could say that would make things right. You are lucky I am feeling lenient today. I have seen fit to not alert my superiors at this time."

Hermione's eyes widened, hardly daring to believe her ears.

"I did not take anything," said Regulus.

"I know," the goblin sniffed. "Consider it the reason I have yet to break out my battle axe."

"Yessir," said Regulus automatically.

"Listen carefully, young one," Rognot's voice lowered, his beady eyes flicking to the firmly closed door. "Gringotts warding will not pick up if an item is replaced with something of equal value. One goblin-made goblet for another, for example."

"I-"

"COME ON YOU SCUM SUCKERS," roared Rognot, cutting Regulus off as the door knob began to turn. "I will take you to your vault. _Move it!"_

Hermione squeaked as Rognot brushed by her, and the door swung inwards, an elderly goblin peering in, "Alright Rognot?"

"Yes sir," Rognot ushered them out of the room. "Just discussing inheritance law with the young Black, per elder Black's instructions."

"Very good," said the other goblin, giving what Hermione was certain he thought was a genial smile. In reality it was a grimace.

Rognot lead them to the carts, and Hermione gripped Regulus tightly as they hurtled down into the bowels of Gringotts. They passed under a waterfall, Hermione inhaling sharply before the illusion washed over them, before coming to a screeching halt in front of the enormous blind dragon.

"Regulus," muttered Hermione. "Am I about to be roasted to death?"

"The dragon is blind, it runs away at the sound of-"

Rognot began rattling the chains, and the dragon turned tail, as expected.

"-that." Regulus finished.

"How _barbaric,"_ breathed Hermione.

They arrived in front of the Lestrange and Black vaults, and Hermione, gulping audibly, took out her wand and cast the Imperius curse without overthinking it. Blankness slid onto Rognot's gaze and she whimpered.

"It's okay," soothed Regulus. "A necessary evil."

They worked quickly, directing Rognot to open the Lestrange vault.

"Careful not to touch anything," instructed Regulus. "It's charmed to burn and multiply.

Hermione gulped. "What is the best way to do this?"

"Quickly," quipped Regulus.

Hermione huffed, "Not the time Reg."

"I know, I know. Sorry. I'd say I need to levitate up to the shelf."

"Do you have the mokeskin pouch?"

"Of course."

Hermione directed Rognot to stand in the corner facing away from them and turned her wand on Regulus. "Wingardium leviosa."

The whole process, in the end, was rather anticlimactic. Reg directed the cup into his mokeskin pouch and replaced it with the dummy cup. The replacement was completely indistinguishable from the original.

Hermione lowered Regulus to the ground, they all scuttled out of the vault, and it closed firmly behind them with a low boom.

Hardly daring to breathe, she released Rognot from the Imperius curse. He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile and unlocked the Black vault.

"What type of jewellery do you wear?" Reg murmured in her ear. She shivered at the sensation.

"Oh, are we actually getting jewellery?"

"Mother will want to see what we chose," said Reg. "And I want to gift you something."

"I wear gold," she said, fingering the thin chain around her neck, a gift from her parents for her 17th birthday.

"Hmm," Regulus eyed her critically and she shifted beneath his gaze. "I've got the perfect piece."

He strode purposefully across the vault, leaving her standing alone with Rognot.

"That boy is disgustingly smitten," said the goblin conversationally.

"Pardon?" she said, startled.

Rognot levelled her with a look that was strangely sympathetic, "You are not from around here."

"I am... not," Hermione replied slowly. "What of it?"

"It is of no importance," he said dismissively, changing topics swiftly. "You seek to defeat Voldemort. You must hasten. He tempts my brethren with promises of freedom that he cannot deliver. You do not want an army of passionate goblins on the other side of this war."

"Thank you," she said, unsure of what else to say. She was spared the burden of continuing the conversation by the return of Regulus.

"Here," he said, slightly breathless. He grabbed her hand and pressed something cool to the touch into it.

She looked down and suppressed a gasp. It was a small pendant, shockingly modest in their ostentatious surrounds. It was a golden snake with a ruby embedded in its head, and from the mouth hung an emerald. It glittered in the firelight emitted from the sconces on the wall.

"I thought you could wear it on your chain," his fingers settled on her collarbone, where the gold thread had settled after her fiddling. The hand ghosted up her neck and threaded through her hair, pulling her into him. He rested his forehead on hers, closing his eyes. "I've missed you."

She angled her face up, standing on her toes to press her lips softly against his. It was tender, but the electricity ran between them, sparking on their lips and rushing down, setting her alight with desire.

"It's beautiful," she said, meaning the pendant.

"Yes," agreed Regulus, his eyes not straying from her face.

"Ahem," said Rognot, and they broke apart, having completely forgotten the goblin was present. "Shall we leave?"

"Ah yes, certainly," said Regulus, taking her hand and tugging her towards the cart.

The sunlight when they emerged seemed especially bright and accusing. Rognot bid them farewell and they exited, tumbling onto the street with relieved giggles.

Regulus helped her hook the pendant onto her gold chain and affix it around her neck, and then pulled her to him and kissed her soundly in the middle of the street.

* * *

James hadn't planned lunch with Peter, but he was bored and restless, so had said yes immediately when Peter had Floo called.

"Hey Pete," said Lily, kissing each man on the cheek. "I've promised Marlene I would catch her for lunch, so I've got to fly. Love you, bye!"

She floated out the door, and James watched her go with a curl to his lips.

Peter rolled his eyes, "You've got forever to stare like a lovesick puppy, I need to talk to you."

James snapped his attention back to Peter immediately, "What's up?"

"I think something is wrong with Remus. He's distracted and acting weird now."

"He's always distracted Pete," James said, taking a sip. "And full moon is coming up."

"Hmm."

They lapsed into silence, Peter's forehead creasing with concern.

James sighed, "I'll check in with him, then. Would that help?"

Peter brightened visibly, "Yes that would help a lot."

"Alright."

* * *

"Sorry I'm late," Marlene slid into the booth across from Lily. Lily glanced up and then widened her eyes.

"Your hair!"

Her trademark ringlets had been softened and straightened, now sitting nearly at hip length. Marlene grinned self-consciously, "Do you like it? I decided to try something different."

"Is it magically straightened, or something else?"

"Just Sleakeazy's. I wanted to trial it before committing to anything."

"It looks amazing!"

"Thanks," Marlene ducked her head, looking pleased. "How are you?"

Lily groaned a little, "Okay you can't tell anyone yet, but," she looked around and lowered her voice, "I'm pregnant."

Marlene swallowed a yelp of excitement, grinning. "Oh, my goodness, congratulations!"

"It's very early days but Merlin preserve me I have been so sick." Lily suddenly stopped talking, grinning across the café and raising an arm. "Sirius! Has Moody set you free on the world?"

"Evans," he greeted, smiling. Marlene stiffened at the sound of his voice. "Marls and I did so good on our paperwork this morning that I actually get my lunch break today."

"Unusual and exciting," Lily commented drily.

Marlene felt a hand brush through her hair, "What've you done to your hair, McKinnon? It's so shiny."

Marlene turned her head to look at him, strands of hair slipping between his fingers. "It's Sleakeazy's. Trying something new. What do you think?"

"Hmm, I like your ringlets better. Anyway, I think I left my coin pouch at yours last night. Can I drop by tonight to pick it up?"

"Of course."

"Alright. Good seeing you Evans."

Lily whipped her head back from watching Sirius exit the building to find Marlene with stained-pink cheeks. "Excuse me, what the fuck was that?"

"What was what?" said Marlene, not meeting her gaze.

"Did Sirius stay at your house last night?"

"It's not what it looks like."

"Are you sure? Because it looks like you have a big fat crush on Sirius Black. Did you change your hair for him too?"

"Shhhh," Marlene hissed frantically, cheeks inflamed. "Oh my gods, please shut up. Maybe. I don't know."

Lily grinned, eyes gleaming. "Alright, I won't say anything, as long as you explain how Sirius left his belongings are your house."

"He helped me home when we'd been drinking. And he stayed over."

"Did you-?"

"No! We both slept fully clothed. I swear on my brother's grave."

"Okay, I believe you." Lily's hand settled on her arm on the table in front of them. "I think it's wonderful. You'd keep Sir on his toes."

"Merlin, please, can we _stop_ talking about this?"

"Fine fine. We can talk about how the contents of my stomach are inevitably going to end up in the café plumbing?"

* * *

Sirius was sitting on the broad windowsill overlooking the garden – if the small patch of grass and mud could be called such – when James handed him the morning paper, open to the socials.

A picture of Regulus kissing Hermione in the middle of Diagon Alley was the feature photo of the spread. His hand was splayed across her waist and hips, almost swamping the dainty frame of the curly haired witch. Both of the subjects had their eyes closed, faint smiles playing on their lips before they crashed together, looping continuously.

"You're going to have to explain that shit to me soon," said James, conversationally, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I already told you-"

"Yeah, yeah. You're oathbound. Get her round to explain it then. Have her over then. I want to know." James' expression morphed into petulant, cross he'd been excluded.

"No guarantees," warned Sirius. "She holds her cards to her chest. I don't even know everything."

"You know more than me," James dropped on to the floor next to the window. There was a beat of silence between them, and then James smiled lightly. "Lily's pregnant."

Sirius's eyes widened, "On purpose?"

James rolled his eyes, "Yes on purpose. We want a big family so we figured we'd get a start on things. We didn't think it would be so quick though."

"You have primo-semen."

"Please never string those words together in a full sentence again."

"You're no fun, you know that?"

"Will you be the godfather?"

"…Are you sure you want to trust me with that?"

"I'd trust you with my life."

Sirius's eyes glittered and he blinked rapidly.

"Are you _crying?"_

"NO. Leave me alone!"

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE: Hello everyone! I've missed you. No, I did not die and have to resurrect myself, but I did quit my job and have to give up my laptop and then fix my old laptop and then find out I'd lost most of my writing and then have to rewrite everything based off some cursory notes and my memory...**

 **I'm very sorry it took so long. I'm going to try and keep on a regular fortnightly schedule of updates from now on and I'm currently mapping out my plot again so I have some clear direction. I am studying full time and home with a toddler right now, however, so it might not always be on time.**

 **Please let me know if you're still here reading, and leave a review with your thoughts and feelings if you can!**

 **Looking forward to writing again 3**

 **~ Maeve**


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